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CORNEILLE  md  HIS  TIMES. 


BY    M.    GUIZOT 


NEW    Y  O  R  K  : 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 
329   &.    331    PEARL    STREE, 

FRANKLIN      SQUARE. 

1852. 


PREFACE. 


I  HAVE  reprinted,  in  the  present  Volume,  one  of  the 
first  works  of  my  youth,  a  work  published  for  the  first 
time  in  1813,  nearly  forty  years  ago.  I  have  made  many 
changes  in  it,  and  I  was  tempted  to  change  much  more. 
So  many  years,  and  such  years,  develop  in  the  mind 
entirely  new  views  upon  all  subjects,  upon  literature,  as 
well  as  life  ;  and  no  one  is  ignorant  of  the  discoveries 
which  we  may  make  by  changing  our  horizon,  without 
changing  our  ideas.  Perhaps,  therefore,  I  ought  to  have 
re-written  my  work.  I  did  not  wish  to  do  so.  A  book 
must  exist  and  last  out  its  time  as  it  is.  This  book  is, 
if  I  mistake  not,  a  faithful  image  of  the  spirit  which  pre- 
vailed, forty  years  ago,  in  literature,  among  the  men  who 
cultivated  it,  and  the  public  who  loved  it. 

For  literature  was  carefully  cultivated  and  truly  loved 
at  that  time,  which  left  it  so  little  space  for  its  manifest- 
ation. Never  had  the  rude  hand  of  politics  so  completely 
held  dominion  over  France  ;  never  had  force  so  inces- 
santly filled  years,  months,  and  days  with  its  actions  and 
hazards.  War  seemed  to  have  become  the  normal  state 
of  human  society — not  war  restrained  within  certain  limits 


vi  PREFACE. 

by  the  law  of  nations  and  the  ancient  traditions  of  States, 
but  war  unlimited  and  immense,  overturning,  deranging, 
commingling  or  separating,  violently  and  without  inter- 
mission, both  governments  and  nations.  During  the  early 
days  of  my  youth,  and  before  its  termination,  I  beheld 
civilized  Europe  exposed  to  two  opposite  deluges  of  inva- 
sion and  conquest,  the  like  of  which  had  never  been  wit- 
nessed since  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  During  the 
space  of  ten  years,  I  beheld  the  empire  of  Napoleon — the 
most  dazzling,  the  most  overwhelming,  and  the  most 
ephemeral  meteor  that  ever  crossed  the  horizon  of  the 
world — arise,  grow,  extend  itself,  and  vanish  away.  And 
it  was  not  only  upon  the  political  state  of  nations,  the 
fate  of  crowned  heads,  and  the  lives  of  generals  and  sol- 
diers, that  the  ever-increasing  weight  of  those  vast  con- 
flicts which  were  destined  to  prove  so  vain  was  laid  ; 
their  influence  extended  throughout  the  whole  of  society  ; 
no  existence,  however  independent  or  insignificant  it 
may  have  been,  was  exempted  from  putting  forth  its 
share  of  eflfort  and  bearing  its  part  of  the  general  burden  ; 
and  domestic  life,  in  the  obscurest  as  well  as  in  the  most 
elevated  regions  of  society,  was  stricken  by  the  same 
blows  which  overturned  the  thrones  of  kings  and  effaced 
the  boundaries  of  empires.  In  1810,  the  commands  of 
absolute  power  dragged  from  their  homes  sons  and  broth- 
ers who  had  complied  with  all  the  obligations  of  the  law, 
and  sent  them  violently  to  the  army.  In  1814,  the  rural 
districts  wore  deficient  in  cultivators  ;  and  in  the  towns, 
suspended  labor  and  abandoned  buildings  presented  an 


PREFACE.  vu 

appearance  of  recent  ruins,  as  strange  as  it  was  painful 
to  contemplate. 

Such  a  state  of  things,  in  its  glories  as  well  as  in  its 
disasters,  is  but  ill-suited  to  the  prosperity  of  literature, 
which  requires  either  more  repose  or  more  liberty.  And 
yet,  such  is  the  intellectual  vitality  of  France  that,  even 
then,  it  did  not  suffer  itself  to  be  confined  or  exhausted 
in  a  single  career  ;  but  it  furnished  noble  gratifications 
to  the  minds  of  men  generally,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
lavished  tens  of  thousands  of  brave  and  energetic  soldiers 
to  gratify  the  insatiable  ambition  of  one  man. 

Three  literary  powers  (I  do  not  here  allude  to  scientific 
men  or  philosophers)  flourished  during  the  Empire,  and 
exercised  a  pregnant  influence  both  upon  authors  and 
upon  the  public.  These  were  the  Journal  des  Débats. 
M.  de  Chateaubriand,  and  Mme.  de  Staël. 

The  literary  restoration  of  France — that  is,  a  return  to 
the  study  of  the  ancient  classics  and  of  our  own  French 
classics,  the  great  writers  of  the  seventeenth  century-^^ 
was  the  undertaking  and  the  work  of  the  Journal  des 
Débats,  It  was  a  work  of  re-action,  often  excessive  and 
unjust,  as  is  the  case  with  all  re-actions  ;  but  it  was  a 
work  of  good  sense  and  good  taste,  which  led  the  public 
mind  back  to  a  feeling  of  the  truly  beautiful — of  that 
beautiful  which  is  at  once  grand  and  simple,  eternal  and 
national.  It  was  the  characteristic  of  the  seventeenth 
century  in  France  that  literature  was  then  cultivated  for 
its  own  sake,  not  as  an  instrument  for  the  propagation 
of  certain  systems,  and  for  ensuring  the  success  of  par- 


viii  PREFACE. 

ticular  designs.  Corneille,  Racine,  and  Boileau,  and  even 
Molière  and  La  Fontaine,  entertained  upon  the  great 
philosophical  and  political  questions  of  the  day,  either 
very  decided  opinions,  or  very  marked  tendencies;  Pas- 
cal and  La  Bruyère,  Bossuet  and  Fénélon,  made  more 
of  philosophy  and  polemics  than  any  other  writers  at 
any  other  period  have  been  able  to  do.  But,  in  their 
literary  activity,  these  great  men  had  no  other  pre-occu- 
pation  than  the  beautiful  and  the  true,  and  were  anxious 
to  paint  them  well  and  skillfully  only  that  they  might 
gain  for  them  greater  admiration.  They  felt,  for  the 
object  of  their  labors,  a  love  which  was  pure  from  every 
other  thought,  and  which  was  as  serious  as  it  was  pure  ; 
for,  while  they  did  not  assume  to  rule  society  by  their 
writings,  they  aspired  to  something  far  above  the  mere 
amusement  of  mankind.  A  frivolous  and  worldly  enter- 
tainment was  as  far  from  their  intentions  as  à  haughty 
or  indirect  propagandism.  At  once  modest  and  proud, 
they  demanded  of  literature,  for  the  public  as  well  as  for 
themselves,  none  but  intellectual  enjoyments;  but  they 
introduced  and  infused  into  these  enjoyments  a  profound 
and  almost  solemn  feeling,  believing  themselves  called 
upon  to  elevate  the  souls  of  men  by  charming  them  with 
the  exhibition  of  the  beautiful,  and  not  merely  to  arouse 
them  for  a  moment  from  their  idleness  or  ennui. 

And  not  only  is  this  the  great  characteristic  of  the 
literature  of  the  seventeenth  century,  but  it  was  by  this 
that  the  seventeenth  century  was  essentially  and  supremely 
a  literary  age.    The  Muses,  to  speak  in  classic  language, 


PREFACE.  ix 

are  jealous  divinities  ;  they  will  reign  and  not  serve,  be 
adored  and  not  employed  ;  and  they  bestow  all  their 
treasures  only  upon  those  who  seek  after  them  solely  to 
enjoy  them,  and  not  to  expend  them  upon  foreign  uses.  It 
was  on  this  account  also  that  the  Journal  des  Débats, 
fifty  years  ago,  became  a  literary  power.  Other  journals 
devoted  themselves,  with  considerable  talent,  to  litera- 
ture ;  but  the  Journal  des  Débats  was  able  better  than 
any  other,  to  discern  and  appropriate  to  itself,  as  it 
were,  the  truly  literary  idea.  It  reminded  literature  of 
its  own  power,  by  referring  it  to  the  examples  of  the  time 
at  which  it  had  shone  with  greatest  lustre,  as  regarded 
itself,  and  had  been  animated  by  the  purest  and  most 
independent  feeling  of  its  mission.  The  principal  writers 
in  the  Journal  des  Débats,  at  the  time  to  which  I  allude 
— MM.  Greoffroy,  Feletz,  Dussault,  Fiévée,  and  Hoffmann 
— -were,  in  themselves,  men  of  very  distinguished  mental 
powers  ;  but  if  they  had  written  isolatedly,  and  each  one 
had  followed  the  bent  of  his  own  inclination,  they  would 
assuredly  have  obtained  far  less  general  authority  and 
personal  renown.  They  grouped  themselves  around  one 
thought — the  literary  restoration  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury ;  with  this  object,  and  beneath  this  standard,  they 
attacked  the  writers  of  the  following  century  and  of  the 
age  in  which  they  lived,  whether  philosophers  or  scholars, 
poets  or  prose-writers — men  to  whose  influence  they  had 
long  submitted,  and  whose  tastes  and  ideas  they  fre- 
quently, at  bottom  still  retained.  And  by  placing  them- 
selves thus,  in  the  sphere  of  literature,  at  the  head  of  the 


X  PREFACE. 

general  movement  of  anti-revolutionary  re-action,  their 
journal  became  the  literary  journal  par  excellence,  and 
they  obtained  a  real  sway  over  the  public  judgment  and 
taste. 

In  the  very  midst  of  this  dominion,  and  with  the  entire 
favor  of  the  journal  which  wielded  it,  arose  the  boldest 
innovator  and  the  most  modern  genius  that  has  illustrated 
our  contemporary  literature  :  I  mean  M.  de  Chateau- 
briand, a  genius  as  little  akin  to  the  seventeenth  century 
as  to  the  eighteenth,  a  brilliant  interpreter  of  the  inco- 
herent ideas  and  disturbed  feelings  of  the  nineteenth, 
and  himself  affected  by  those  maladies  of  our  time  which 
he  so  well  understood  and  described,  flattering  and  oppos- 
ing them  by  turns.  Read  once  again  the  "  Essai  His- 
torique sur  les  Révolutions,"  "René,"  and  the  "Mémoires 
d'Outre-tombe,"  those  three  works  in  which  M.  de  Cha- 
teaubriand, in  his  youth,  his  mature  age,  and  his  old  age, 
has  portrayed  himself  with  such  complacency  ;  is  there  a 
single  one  of  our  dispositions  and  of  our  moral  infirmities 
which  is  not  contained  therein  ?  Our  vast  hopes,  our 
speedy  disappointments,  our  changeful  temptations,  our 
perpetual  ardors,  exhaustions  and  revivals,  our  alternating 
ambitions  and  susceptibilities,  our  returns  to  faith,  and 
our  relapses  into  doubt,  our  aspirations  sometimes  toward 
authority  and  sometimes  toward  liberty — that  activity  at 
once  indefatigable  and  uncertain,  that  commingling  of 
noble  passions  and  of  egotism,  that  fluctuation  between 
the  past  and  the  future,  indeed  all  those  variable  and  ill- 
assorted  features  which,  for  half  a  centurv,  have  charac- 


PREFACE.  XI 

terized  the  state  of  society  and  of  the  human  soul  among 
us — of  all  these  things  M.  de  Chateaubriand  was  con- 
scious in  his  own  person,  and  his  works,  like  his  life, 
every  where  attest  their  influence  and  bear  their  impress. 
Hence  arose  his  popularity,  which  was  general,  in  spite 
of  our  dissensions,  and  continued,  notwithstanding  our 
political  and  literary  revolutions.  The  lettered  and  trav- 
eled gentleman  who  so  boldly  yielded  to  the  exuberance 
of  an  imagination  enriched  with  the  treasures  of  all  ages 
and  of  all  worlds,  the  author  who  made  so  novel  and 
sometimes  so  rash  a  use  of  our  language — this  poetical 
and  romantic  prose-writer  gained  the  admiration  of  the 
purest  and  most  rigid  judges,  of  M.  de  Fontanes,  of  M. 
Bertin,  and  of  all  the  classic  school  of  the  Journal  des 
Débats.  The  political  émigré  and  partisan  of  the  Bour- 
bons, who,  whenever  the  sovereign  and  definitive  ques- 
tion was  proposed,  invariably  ranged  himself  on  the  side 
of  ancient  recollections,  has  always  obtained  or  regained 
the  favor  of  the  young  liberal,  and  even  revolutionary, 
generations.  He  was  attentive  and  skillful  in  conciliat- 
ing these  various  suffrages  ;  he  possessed  an  instinctive 
perception  of  public  impressions,  and  could  select,  from 
his  own  feelings,  that  which  was  likely  to  please  them. 
But  this  skillfulness  would  never  have  sufficed  to  gain 
him  such  difficult  and  opposite  successes,  unless  he  had 
been,  by  his  merits  as  well  as  by  his  defects,  by  the  good 
qualities  as  well  as  by  the  weaknesses  of  his  character 
and  genius,  in  harmony  with  his  age  ;  he  answered  to 
inclinations  and  tastes  which,  though  very  different  in 


xii  PREFACE, 

other  respects,  were  equally  eager  after,  and  delighted 
with,  the  gratifications  which  he  offered  them.  For  this 
reason,  in  politics,  notwithstanding  his  continual  reverses, 
he  was  always  a  formidable  adversary  ;  and  in  literature, 
from  the  same  cause,  he  exercised  over  the  whole  of  the 
public,  over  those  minds  which  distrusted  him  as  well  as 
over  those  who  blindly  admired  or  imitated  him,  a  most 
prompt  and  remarkable  influence. 

Madame  de  Stael  was  not  adapted  thus  to  please  so 
many  different  parties  and  tastes.  She  was  a  passionate 
and  sincere  person,  who  had  her  feelings  and  ideas  seri- 
ously at  heart,  and  she  was,  at  the  same  time,  a  faithful 
representative  of  the  eighteenth  century,  in  its  best  and 
noblest  aspirations.  So  true  a  nature,  formed  in  the 
midst  of  so  factitious  a  state  of  society,  and  so  brilliant 
a  mixture  of  the  life  of  the  soul  and  the  life  of  the  salons^ 
of  inner  emotions  and  worldly  impressions,  have  rarely 
been  met  with.  This  is  the  original  and  striking  feature 
in  Madame  de  Sta^l,  and  this  forms  her  strong  bond  of 
union  with  the  eighteenth  century,  although,  in  other 
and  important  respects,  she  differs  widely  from  it.  It 
was  an  age  full  of  confusion  and  contradiction,  of  serious 
ambition  and  frivolous  manners,  of  generosity  and  per- 
sonality— which  became  intoxicated  at  once  with  moral 
sentiments  and  with  ideas  destructive  of  all  morality, 
which  desired  to  attain  to  goodness  while  utterly  disre- 
garding its  source  and  laws,  and  which  led  men  to  the 
gates  of  Hell  by  dreaming  for  them,  with  lively  and  sin- 
cere sympathy,  of  innocence  and  the  happiness  of  Para- 


PREFACE.  xHi 

diso,  Madame  de  Stael  retained,  under  the  Empire,  the 
generous  sentiments  of  that  old  liberal  régime  amidst 
which  her  youth  had  been  passed  ;  her  mind  had  become 
elevated  and  purified  without  detriment  to  her  faith  ;  and 
independently  of  their  intrinsic  merit,  her  works,  whatever 
they  might  be,  literature,  philosophy,  romance,  morality 
or  personal  memoirs,  received  therefrom  a  powerful  ele- 
ment of  attraction.  When  a  people  has  engaged  with 
passionate  earnestness  in  a  great  movement  on  behalf  of 
a  great  cause,  no  mistakes,  no  disasters,  no  remorse,  no 
reaction,  however  natural  and  mighty  it  may  be,  can 
efface  from  its  heart  the  remembrance  of  its  first  days 
of  strength  and  hope.  The  Revolution  which  began  in 
1789  has  already  received,  and  will  perhaps  continue  to 
receive,  some  harsh  lessons  ;  it  has  already  cost,  and  will 
perhaps  continue  to  cost,  France  very  dear  ;  the  Em- 
pire, which  sprang  from  it,  disowned  and  maltreated  it 
strangely;  and  yet  1789  was  vmder  the  Empire,  and  is 
at  the  present  day,  and  will  always  continue  to  be,  a 
great  national  date,  a  powerful  word  most  dear  to  France. 
Madame  de  Stael  was  and  remained  attached  to  1789  ; 
she  clung  to  it  by  fibres  ever  living,  even  where  they 
seemed  utterly  deadened.  The  numerous  readers  of  her 
writings  delighted  to  fiind  in  them — some  their  recollec- 
tions and  the  image,  manners,  and  tone  of  that  old  society 
in  which  they  had  moved,  and  others  their  hopes,  and  a 
living  faith  in  the  principles  of  that  future  which  they 
had  dreamed  of  for  their  country  ;  for  all,  they  contained 
matter  either  for  syjnapathy,  for  criticism,  or  for  comment- 


ilv  PREFACE. 

ary  ;  and  each  new  work  of  Madame  de  Stael  consti- 
tuted, in  the  literary  world,  in  the  drawing-rooms  of 
fashion,  and  even  among  the  scattered  and  distant  pub- 
lic, an  intellectual  event,  a  theme  of  conversation,  of  dis- 
cussions, of  reminiscences,  or  of  prospects  full  of  move- 
ment and  interest. 

I  am  desirous  to  pass  over  no  merit,  and  to  offend  no 
memory  :  the  literature  of  the  Empire  certainly  presents 
other  names  which  justly  occupied  public  attention  at 
that  time,  and  which  ought  not  now  to  be  forgotten.  I 
persist,  however,  in  my  conviction  :  the  Journal  des 
Débats,  that  association  of  judicious  restorers  of  the  lit- 
erary ideas  and  tastes  of  the  seventeenth  century — M. 
de  Chateaubriand,  that  bïilliant  and  sympathetic  inter- 
preter of  the  moral  and  intellectual  perplexities  of  the 
nineteenth — and  Madame  de  Stael,  that  noble  echo  of 
the  generous  sentiments  and  noble  aspirations  of  the 
eighteenth — are  the  three  influences,  the  three  powers, 
which,  under  the  Empire,  truly  acted  upon  our  litera- 
ture and  left  their  impress  upon  its  history. 

And  all  these  three  powers  were  in  opposition.  The 
incidents  of  their  life  would  teach  us  this  even  if  their 
writings  did  not  exist  to  prove  it.  By  an  unexampled 
act  of  confiscation,  the  Journal  des  Débats  was  taken 
out  of  the  hands  of  its  proprietors  ;  M.  de  Chateaubriand 
was  excluded  from  the  French  Academy  ;  and  Madame 
de  Stael  spent  ten  years  in  exile. 

Absolute  power  is  not  the  necessary  enemy  of  litera- 
ture, nor   is  literature  necessarily  its  enemy.     Witness 


PREFACE.  XV 

Louis  XIV.  and  his  age.     But  for  literature  to  flourish 
under  such  a  state  of  things,  and  to  embellish  it  with  its 
splendor,  absolute  power  must  be  acknowledged  by  the 
general  moral  belief  of  the  public,  and  not  merely  ac- 
cepted as  a  result  of  circumstance,  in  the  name  of  neces- 
sity.    It  is  also  requisite  that  the  possessor  of  absolute 
authority  should  know  how  to  respect  the  dignity  of  the 
great  minds  that  cultivate  literature,  and  to  leave  them 
sufiicient  liberty  for  the  unrestrained  manifestation  of 
their  powers.     France  and  Bossuet  believed  sincerely  in 
the  sovereign  right  of  Louis  XIV.  ;  Molière  and  La  Fon- 
taine freely  ridiculed  his  courtiers  as  well  as  his  sub- 
jects ;  and  Racine,  through  the  mouth  of  Joad,  addressed 
to  the  little  king  Joas  precepts  with  which  the  great  king 
was  not  offended.     When  Louis  XIV.,  during  his  perse- 
cution of  the  Jansenists,  said  to  Boileau  :   "  I  am  having 
search  made  for  M.  Arnauld  in  every  direction,"  Boileau 
replied  :   "  Your  Majesty  is  always  fortunate  ;  you  will 
not  find  him;"  and  the  king  smiled  at  the  courageous 
wit  of  the  poet,  withovit  showing  any  symptoms  of  anger. 
On  such  conditions,  absolute  power  can  co-exist  harmo- 
niously with  the  greatest  and  most  high-spirited  minds 
that  have   ever   devoted   themselves  to   literature.     But 
nothing  of  the  kind  was  the  case  under  the  Empire.    The 
Emperor  Napoleon,  who  had  saved  France  from  anarchy, 
and  was  covering  her  with  glory  in  Europe,  was  never- 
theless regarded,  by  all  clear-sighted  and  sensible  men, 
merely  as  the  sovereign  master  of  a  temporary  govern- 
ment, in  little  harmony  with  the  general  tendencies  of 


xvi  PREFACE. 

society,  and  commanded  by  necessity  rather  than  estab- 
lished in  faith.  He  was  served,  and  with  good  reason, 
by  men  of  eminent  minds  and  noble  characters,  for  his 
government  was  necessary  and  great  ;  but  beyond  his 
government,  in  the  regions  of  thought,  great  minds  and 
lofty  characters  possessed  neither  independence  nor  dig- 
nity. Napoleon  was  not  wise  enough  to  leave  them  their 
part  in  space  ;  and  he  feared  without  respecting  them. 
Perhaps  he  could  not  possibly  have  acted  otherwise  ; 
and  perhaps  this  may  have  been  a  vice  of  his  position, 
as  much  as  an  error  of  his  genius.  Nowhere,  in  no 
degree,  and  under  no  form,  did  the  Empire  tolerate  oppo- 
sition. In  France,  in  the  age  in  which  we  live,  this 
becomes,  sooner  or  later,  even  for  the  strongest  govern- 
ments, a  deceitful  snare  and  an  immense  danger.  After 
fifteen  years  of  glorious  absolute  power,  Napoleon  fell  ; 
the  proprietors  of  the  Journal  des  Débats  regained  pos- 
session of  their  property  ;  M.  de  Chateaubriand  celebrated 
the  return  of  the  Bourbons  ;  and  Madame  de  Stael  beheld 
the  great  desires  of  1789  consecrated  by  the  Charter  of 
Louis  XVIII.  And  now,  after  thirty-four  years  of  that 
system  for  which  our  fathers  longed  so  ardently  !  .  .  .  Grod 
gives  us  severe  lessons,  which  we  must  comprehend  and 
accept,  without  despairing  of  the  good  cause.  After 
having  witnessed  these  prodigious  vicissitudes  of  human 
affairs,  we  are  equally  cured  of  presumption  and  discour- 
agement. 

Who.n,  in  1813,  I  published  this  sketch  of  the  litera- 
ture of  the  seventeenth  century,  I  was  aided  in  my  labor 


PREFACE.  xvii 

by  a  person  to  whom  I  was  long  indebted  for  my  happi- 
ness, and  to  whom  I  shall  ever  owe  the  dearest  recollec- 
tions of  my  life.  The  essays  on  Corneille's  three  con- 
temporaries, Chapelain,  Rotrou,  and  Scarron,  were  pre- 
pared and,  to  a  great  extent,  written  out  by  her.  I  have 
carefully  revised  them,  as  well  as  the  essays  on  Poetry 
in  France  before  the  Time  of  Corneille,  and  on  Corneille 
himself;  and  I  leave  them  in  their  place  as  an  integral 
part  of  this  work. 

The  Appendices  annexed  to  the  life  of  Corneille,  have 
been  furnished  to  me  by  the  friendship  of  that  learned 
Norman  archaeologist,  M.  Floquet,  whose  researches  have 
elucidated  so  many  important  points  in  our  political  and 
literary  history,  and  who  is  now  preparing  a  work  on  the 
Life  and  Writings  of  Bossuet,  which  is  full  of  real  dis- 
coveries. My  gratitude  to  him,  I  am  sure,  only  antici- 
pates that  of  the  public. 

GUIZOT.^ 

Paris,  Jlfoy  24,  1852.  '  -    •  •"  "     • 


CONTENTS. 

Txat, 
INTRODUCTION  :— POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE  THE  TIME 

OF  CORNEILLE 21 

PIERRE  CORNEILLE Ill 

JEAN  CHAPELAIN 240 

JEAN  ROTROU 282 

PAUL  SCARRON 315 

APPENDIX 369 


CORNEILLE  AND  HIS  TIMES. 


POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE  THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE. 


Literary  history  has  this  advantage  over  general  his- 
tory, that  it  holds  in  actual  possession,  and  is  able  to 
exhibit  the  very  objects  which  it  desires  to  make  known 
and  to  judge.  Achilles  and  Priam  are  dead  ;  all  our  knowl- 
edge of  them  and  their  actions  is  derived  from  Homer  ; 
but  Homer  still  lives — by  his  poems  he  belongs  to  history, 
and  his  poems  are  in  our  hands. 

To  behold  these  creations  of  genius  is,  however,  not 
Bufficient  ;  we  must  also  understand  them.  How  can  we 
understand  literary  history  without  being  acquainted  with 
the  times  and  the  men  in  whose  midst  the  monuments 
to  which  it  refers  were  reared  ?  and  how  can  we  become 
acquainted  with  men  who  were  as  yet  unable  to  exercise 
their  powers  of  observation,  and  to  gain  a  knowledge  of 
themselves.     As  Milton  says  : 

"  For  man  to  tell  how  human  life  began 
Is  hard  ; — for  who  himself  beginning  knew  1" 

Literary  history  is,  then,  frequently  under  the  necessity 
of  compensating,  by  conjecture,  for  the  silence  of  facts. 
But  conjectures  founded  upon  the  natural  progress  of  the 
human  mind  fail  when  we  have  to  account  for  the  couree 


22  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

pursued  by  the  literature  of  modern  times.  Among  a 
people  whose  character  is  formed  in  a  simple  manner,  and 
whose  civilization  is  the  result  of  the  free  and  harmonious 
development  of  the  human  mind,  the  question  of  the  origin 
of  literature,  although  somewhat  complicated  in  itself,  is 
not  very  difficult  of  solution  :  the  answer  must  be  sought, 
and  will  be  found,  in  the  spontaneous  expansion  of  our 
nature.  Poetry,  the  first  outburst  of  a  budding  imagin- 
ation in  the  midst  of  a  world  that  is  new  to  it,  then  finds, 
in  all  surrounding  objects,  themes  for  its  songs,  and  de- 
rives from  the  simplest  sights  a  host  of  sensations  previ- 
ously unknown.  Adam,  on  opening  his  eyes  for  the  first 
time  to  the  light  thus  describes  to  us  his  first  move- 
ments : 

"As  new  waked  from  soundest  sleep 

Soft  on  the  flowery  herb  I  found  me  laid. 
Straight  toward  Heaven  my  wondering  eyes  I  turned 
And  gazed  awhile  the  ample  sky  ;  till  raised 
By  quick  instinctive  motion,  up  I  sprung, 
As  thitherward  endeavoring,  and  upright 
Stood  on  my  feet.     About  me  round  I  saw 
Hill,  dale,  and  shady  woods,  and  sunny  plains. 
And  liquid  lapse  of  murm'rmg  streams  ;  by  these, 
Creatures  that  lived,  and  moved,  and  walk'd,  or  flew  ; 
Birds  on  the  branches  warbling  :  all  things  smiled  ; 
With  fragrance  and  with  joy  my  heart  o'erflow'd. 
Myself  I  then  perused,  and  limb  by  limb 
Surveyed,  and  sometimes  went,  and  sometimes  ran 
With  supple  joints,  as  lively  vigor  led  : 
But  who  I  was,  or  where,  or  from  what  cause, 
Knew  not  :  to  speak  I  tried,  and  forthwith  spake."* 

Such  is  man  at  the  moment  when  his  faculties  awake 
to  the  first  joys  of  imagination  ;  he  gazes  at  the  ample 
dome  of  heaven — at  the  woods  and  plains  ;  he  thinks  he 
sees  them  for  the  first  time  ;  around  him,  all  things  are 
animated  and  excite  him  ;  within  himself,  inspiration 
awakes  and  agitates  him  ;  his   accumulated   sensations 

'  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  book  viii. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  83 

demand  expression  ;  he  tries  to  speak,  and  speaks  ;  and 
poetry  is  born,  as  simple  as  that  which  man  beholds,  as 
vivid  as  that  which  he  feels.  It  is  nature  that  he  displays 
to  us — nature  adorned  with  all  the  wealth  that  its  aspect 
has  developed  within  man.  He  wishes  to  describe,  and 
he  paints  ;  he  desires  to  give  names  to  what  he  views, 
and  lo! 

"  His  tongue  obey'd,  and  readily  could  netme 
Whate'er  he  saw." 

But  he  names  every  thing  as  he  perceives  it — as  a  being 
filled  with  a  life  that  he  himself  imparts  to  it  ;  his  feel- 
ings and  the  objects  which  excite  them,  unite  in  one  and 
the  same  idea  : 

"  With  fragrance  and  with  joy  his  heart  o'erflows." 

His  moral  nature  is  diffused  universally  over  the  physical 
nature  which  surrounds  it  ;  and  his  soul  peoples  space 
with  creatures,  living  and  sensible  like  himself.  The 
G-reeks  took  delight  in  song  ;  and  Homer  sang — he  sang 
the  victories  of  his  fellow-countrymen,  their  quarrels  and 
reconciliations,  their  games  and  festivals,  their  business 
and  their  pleasures.  On  the  shield  of  Achilles  are  dis- 
played flocks,  harvests,  and  vintages  ;  conjugal  affection 
gives  tenderness  to  the  farewells  of  Andromache  ;  Priam 
is  a  father  weeping  over  the  loss  of  his  son  ;  and  Achilles 
utters  the  laments  of  friendship  over  the  body  of  Patroolus. 
Thus,  the  most  natural  feelings  and  the  simplest  interests 
were  what  inspired  the  muse  of  the  prince  of  poets.  These 
feelings  were  the  first  that  moved  the  heart  of  man  ;  these 
interests  were,  at  the  outset,  his  only  interests.  Before 
he  came  into  being,  they  animated  earth  and  skies  ;  and, 
in  the  events  of  a  war  waged  by  armed  barbarians  to  re- 
cover a  woman — in  the  dispute  of  two  chieftains  who  had 
quarreled  about  a  slave.  Homer  perceived,  and  has  por- 


24  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

trayea,  nature  in  its  noblest  aspects,  man  in  all  his  attri- 
butes, and  the  gods  every  where. 

Let  it  not  be  asked  how  Homer  was  led  to  entertain 
such  ideas,  and  what  combinations  of  customs,  circum- 
stances, and  positions,  concurred  to  form  the  system  of 
his  poetry  ;  he  could  have  had  no  other.  If  Homer  had 
disappeared,  and  it  were  possible  to  invent  him,  it  would 
be  said:  Such  a  man  he  must  have  been — an  exemplifi- 
cation of  that  which  could  not  fail  to  be  produced  by  tho 
development  of  the  happiest  faculties  among  a  people  at 
liberty  to  display  them  all,  and  among  whom  nothing  had 
occurred  to  distort  their  character,  to  disturb  their  har- 
mony, or  to  divert  their  course. 

Such  could  not  be  the  case  with  regard  to  modern  na- 
tions :  when  they  established  themselves  upon  the  ruins 
of  a  world  that  had  already  grown  old,  they  were  ignorant 
and  incapable  of  comprehending  those  institutions  from 
which  their  coarse  manners  were  about  to  receive  some 
forms,  equally  rude  and  more  incoherent.  A  divine  re- 
ligion, coming  down  into  the  midst  of  nations  at  once  en- 
lightened and  corrupted  by  a  long  term  of  existence;  a 
sublime  morality,  based  on  the  precepts  of  the  Gospel,  too 
perfect  for  the  manners  of  those  who  were  about  to  receive 
it,  and  yet  sufficiently  positive  to  exact  their  obedience  ; 
towns  and  palaces,  which  had  been  conquered,  and  were 
inhabited,  by  savages  incompetent  to  appreciate  the  skill 
which  had  erected  them  ;  luxury,  for  which  they  acquired 
a  taste,  and  to  which  they  became  habituated,  before 
they  had  learned  its  use  ;  enjoyments,  distinctions,  and 
titles,  which  had  been  invented  by  the  vanity  of  an 
effeminate  world,  and  which  were  paraded  by  barbarian 
vanity  rather  in  imitation  than  from  necessity  ;  all  these 
facts  could  not  fail  to  strike  these  new  peoples  as  being 
one  of  those  strange  and  confused  spectacles  at  which 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  25 

ignorant  spectators  can  not  even  manifest  sufficient  aston- 
ishment, because  they  do  not  perceive  its  liidden  springs 
and  secret  workings  ;  all  these  causes  necessarily  led  to 
that  confusedness  of  ideas,  to  those  fantastic  and  in- 
complete associations  of  thought  of  which  modern  lit- 
eratures, in  their  early  essays,  and  even  in  their  master- 
pieces, present  traces  which,  though  varying  in  distinct- 
ness, are  every  where  visible. 

The  Grreek,  at  the  origin  and  during  the  progress  of 
his  civilization,  appears  to  us  like  man  issuing  from  the 
hands  of  (rod,  in  all  the  simplicity  and  grandeur  of  his 
nature — coming  into  existence  in  a  world  that  is  ready 
to  yield  to  him  all  the  riches  that  his  intelligence  can 
extract  from  her  ample  stores,  but  which  discloses  those 
riches  gi-adually,  and  in  proportion  to  the  development 
of  his  intellect.  The  German  barbarian,  transported 
suddenly  into  the  midst  of  Roman  civilization,  presents 
to  us  a  type  of  the  children  of  men  cast  abruptly  into 
a  world  formed  for  creatures  that  already  possess  wide 
experience  and  full  development  ;  they  pass  their  life 
surrounded  by  objects  which  they  will  use  before  they 
have  studied  their  properties,  and  which  they  will 
abuse  before  they  have  learned  their  use,  repeating  words 
which  suggest  no  meaning  to  their  minds,  subject  to 
laws  the  object  of  which  they  do  not  comprehend,  and 
striving  to  employ  in  their  service  things  which  more 
enlightened  generations  had  invented  for  themselves,  and 
adapted  to  their  own  convenience. 

Amidst  this  infancy  of  modern  nations,  how  can  we 
distinguish  what  belongs  to  a  nature  continually  stifled 
beneath  the  pressure  of  a  factitious  position,  or  to  an 
education  so  very  unappropriatc  to  the  necessities  and 
faculties  of  those  who  received  it?  In  such  a  state  of 
things,  the  reason  of  man  could  keep  pace  neither  with 

B  ■ 


26  POETRY  IN  PRANCE  BEFORE 

his  position,  nor  with  the  interests  which  that  position 
involved.  At  the  epoch  which  Homer  depicts,  when 
men  were  probably  unacquainted  with  the  use  of  letters, 
and  the  coinage  of  money  ;  when  princes  and  heroes 
themselves  prepared  their  own  meals  and  those  of  their 
guests  ;  when  the  daughters  of  kings  washed  the  garments 
of  the  household — his  personages,  perfectly  in  harmony 
with  the  manners  of  their  time  and  the  state  of  their 
civilization,  have  simple  and  consistent  ideas,  formed 
with  perfect  good  sense  :  but  how  could  these  qualities 
and  this  state  of  mind  have  existed  among  those  feudal 
lords  of  the  Middle  Ages,  whose  titles  were  emblazoned 
in  characters  which  they  could  not  read — who  coined 
money  and  plundered  travelers — who  dwelt  in  fortified 
^3astles,  and  were  served  by  a  train  of  domestics  and 
slaves  more  skillful  in  the  art  of  cookery  than  the  divine 
Achilles  himself? 

It  is  this  complication  of  causes  in  the  manners  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  this  singular  mixture  of  natural  barbarism 
and  acquired  civilization,  of  antiquated  notions  and  novel 
ideas,  which  renders  it  very  difficult  to  explain  the  course 
]>ur.sued  by  the  various  literatures  that  issued  from  these 
times.  They  came  into  being  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
obscure  and  discordant  circumstances  which  it  would  be 
necessary  to  distinguish  and  connect,  in  order  properly  to 
link  together  the  chain  of  facts,  and  to  discern  their  pro- 
gressive influence.  Do  we  believe  that  we  have  discover- 
ed some  of  those  decisive  indications  which  serve  to  ex- 
plain the  character  and  conduct  of  peoples?  We  soon 
perceive  that  even  these  indications  do  not  disclose  the 
secret  of  the  causes  which  have  determined  the  genius  of 
literatures  ;  for  the  great  events  of  history  have  acted 
upon  letters  only  by  unknown  and  indirect  affinities, 
wliich  it  is  almost  impossible  to  apprehend.     On  beholding 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  27 

Dante  in  Italy  and  Milton  in  England,  and  observing  the 
great  resemblance  that  exists  in  the  genius  of  these  two 
poets,  though  born  under  climates  so  difterent,  and  that 
is  still  more  evident  between  the  subjects  of  their  poetry, 
we  are  disposed  to  seek  for  the  reasons  of  this  conformity 
in  general  causes,  and  similarity  of  position.  We  per- 
suade ourselves  that  the  religious  controversies  and  civil 
troubles  in  the  midst  of  which  Dante  and  Milton  both 
lived,  by  directing  the  imagination  of  these  men  to  the 
most  serious  interests  of  life,  produced  the  circumstances 
best  calculated  to  fertilize  their  genius.  In  the  grandeur 
of  the  thoughts  which  must  have  formed  the  subject  of 
their  meditations,  in  the  violence  of  the  passions  which 
agitated  their  souls,  we  find  the  source  of  that  terrible 
sublimity  and  sombre  energy  which  are  equally  remarka- 
ble in  the  "  Paradise  Lost"  and  in  the  "  Divina  Com- 
media,"  and  which  are  equally  associated,  in  both  poems, 
with  that  theological  subtlety,  that  hyperbolic  exaggera- 
tion, and  that  abuse  of  allegory,  which  are  the  natural 
defects  oT  an  imagination  that  has  hitherto  known  no 
check,  and  of  a  mind  that  is  dazzled  by  the  unexpected 
play  of  its  own  faculties.  But  when  we  think  we  have 
thus  satisfactorily,  accounted  for  these  great  poetical 
master-pieces  of  Italy  and  England,  we  must  inquire  why 
similar  circumstances  produced  nothing  of  the  kind  in 
Franco  ;  why  the  disorders  of  the  League  did  not  bear 
fruit  similar  to  that  borne  by  the  revolutions  of  England 
and  the  civil  wars  of  Florence  ;  and  why,  though  almost 
contemporary  with  Milton,  and  living  at  a  time  when 
literature  was  at  least  in  as  forward  a  state  as  when 
Dante  wrote,  Malherbe  bears  so  little  resemblance  to 
either  ?  We  shall  look  for  the  secret  of  the  different 
effects  which  have  resulted  in  the  different  literatures, 
in  the  special  nature  of  the  governments,  in  the  manners 


28  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

of  the  peoples,  in  the  particular  character  of  the  troubles 
which  agitated  them,  and  in  the  personal  position  in 
which  the  authors  and  actors  of  these  troubles  were 
placed  ;  and  we  shall  thus  be  led  to  acknowledge  the  in- 
fluence of  those  innumerable  secondary  causes,  whose 
nature  or  power  it  is  impossible  accurately  to  define,  and 
whose  reality  it  is  sometimes  even  impossible  to  affirm. 

Such  are  the  principal  difficulties  encountered  by  the 
historian  who  is  anxious  to  discover  the  causes  that 
determined  the  character  and  direction  of  modern  litera- 
tures, at  their  origin  and  during  the  epochs  nearest  the 
period  of  their  greatest  glory.  Compelled  to  content 
himself  with  views  of  the  subject  that  are  seldom  com- 
plete, and  with  researches  that  are  rarely  well-directed, 
he  can  do  no  more,  after  great  study,  than  arrive  at  a 
few  general  results,  and  some  certain  affinities  ;  and 
afterward  connect  with  these  fixed  and  luminous  points, 
all  the  facts  which  seem  attached  to  them  by  any  bond, 
more  or  less  clear  and  more  or  less  remote.  This  is  what 
I  shall  attempt  to  do  in  giving  a  sketch  of  the  progress 
of  poetry  in  France  until  the  period  when  Corneille  in- 
augurated the  glorious  age  of  its  fullest  splendor. 

In  their  complicated  and  obscure  position,  the  literary 
spirit  was  developed,  among  modern  nations,  in  a  very 
rapid  and  incomplete  manner.  We  find  it  animated  and 
active,  even  to  refinement,  in  certain  directions  ;  while, 
at  the  same  time,  it  is  inert  and  rude  every  where  else. 
In  the  midst  of  the  darkness  of  general  ignorance,  partial 
enlightenment  of  mind  resembles  those  will-o'-the-wisps 
which  deceive  as  regards  the  spot  they  illuminate  as  well 
as  respecting  those  which  they  leave  in  obscurity.  Too 
easily  satisfied  with  what  it  perceives,  the  mind  errs 
through  ignorance,  and  exaggerates  the  importance  of 
what  it  has  discovered  as  well  as  the  uselessness  of  that 


THE  TIME   OF  CORAEILLK.  29 

of  which  it  is  ignorant.  Those  great  features  of  nature, 
those  first  outlines  of  society,  which  the  simplicity  and 
small  number  of  objects  allowed  the  ancients  to  catch 
with  so  much  felicity  and  to  depict  with  such  fidelity, 
could  not  be  so  clearly  discerned  by  the  moderns. 
Sketches,  frequently  of  a  puerile  character,  but  treated 
with  a  seriousness  that  increased  their  puerility,  herald- 
ed the  first  efforts  of  that  poetical  spirit  which  taste 
could  not  accompany  ;  for  taste  is  the  result  of  a  full 
knowledge  of  things,  and  of  a  just  estimate  of  their  true 
value.  The  want  of  truth,  however,  soon  brought  poets 
back  to  the  observation  of  their  own  feelings — the  only 
subject  that  they  could  thoroughly  understand — and  in- 
troduced into  poetry  the  description  of  a  kind  of  emo- 
tions almost  unknown  to  the  poets  of  antiquity.  Love, 
which,  in  the  form  that  has  been  given  to  it  by  our 
modern  manners,  is  the  most  fruitful  of  all  the  passions 
in  fine  and  delicate  shades,  was  also  best  adapted  to  give 
occupation  to  minds  disposed  to  the  observation  of  details. 
In  France  especially,  where  it  had  become  the  principal 
business  of  an  idle  nobility,  love  was  almost  exclusively 
the  subject  of  the  earliest  efforts  of  poetic  genius.  Often 
unaffected  and  truthful  in  its  sentiments,  it  also  fre- 
quently introduced  into  its  inventions  that  subtlety,  that 
search  after  ingenious  and  unexpected  traits  of  character, 
which  has  constituted  the  chief  defect  of  our  literature. 
Raimbault  de  Vaqueiras,  a  poet  and  gentleman  of 
Provence,  loved  and'  was  tolerated  by  Beatrice,  sister  of 
the  Marquis  of  Montferrat.'  Beatrice,  on  her  marriage, 
thought  it  her  duty  not  to  continue  to  receive  his  atten- 
tions.    Raimbault,  nettled  at  this,  "  because  the  lady  had 

"  r  dico  I'uno  e  Taltro  Raimbaldo 
Che  cantar  per  Beatrice  in  Monferrato." 

.  .  .U  .ic;-,  .-V      ^,       PeirarcA,  "  Trionfo  d'Amore,"  cap.  iv. 


30  POETRY  IN  FRANCE   BEFORE 

changed  her  opinion,  as  well  as  to  show  that  the  change 
was  agreeable  to  himself,"  wrote  her  a  farewell  song, 
sufficiently  tender  in  its  expressions,  hut  in  which,  "  at 
each  couplet,  he  changed  the  language  in  which  he  wrote." 
The  first  was  in  Provençal,  the  second  in  Tuscan,  the 
third  in  French,  the  fourth  in  Grascon,  the  fifth  in  Spanish, 
"  and  the  last  couplet  was  a  mixture  of  words  borrowed 
from  all  these  five  languages  ;  so  lively  an  invention," 
adds  Pasquier,  "that  if  it  had  been  presented  to  the 
knights  and  ladies  who  were  judges  of  love,  I  am  willing 
to  believe  that  they  would  have  decided  in  favor  of  the 
renewal  of  the  loves  of  Beatrice  v/ith  this  gentle  poet."* 
Thus,  knights  and  ladies,  if  Pasquier  judges  them  aright, 
would  have  granted  every  thing  to  the  ingenuity  of  the 
poet,  without  giving  much  heed  to  love  itself,  which 
probably  occupied  only  a  small  place  in  such  a  gentillesse. 

Much  love,  therefore,  was  not  necessary  to  inspire  a 
poet  ;  but  the  little  love  that  he  really  felt,  he  could  make 
large  enough  to  fill  his  verses,  just  as  scruples  magnify 
devotion  and  occupy  life.  Pierre  Vidal,  a  troubadour  of 
Marseilles,  who  loved  Adelaide  de  Roque-Martine,  the 
wife  of  the  Viscount  of  Marseilles,  was  so  unfortunate  in 
his  amours  as  to  afford  sport  to  the  Viscount  himself. 
One  day  the  poet  found  the  Viscountess  asleep  and  snatch- 
ed a  kiss  ;  she  awoke  and  was  very  angry.  Probably 
Vidal  annoyed  her  still  more  as  a  lover  than  he  amused 
her  as  a  poet  ;  for,  delighted  at  having  found  a  pretext 
for  getting  rid  of  a  troublesome  admirer,  whose  poetry 
was  his  only  merit,  she  persisted  so  inexorably  in  her 
anger,  that  even  her  husband  could  not  obtain  Vidal's 
pardon.  In  despair,  or  thinking  that  he  ought  to  be  so, 
Vidal  embarked  for  the  Holy  Land  in  the  suite  of  King 
Richard.     As  poetical  in  his  bravery  as  in  his  amours, 

'  "  Recherches  de  la  Franco,"  lib.  vii.  cap.  iv.  vol.  ii.  col.  695,  696 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  31 

and  doubtless  one  of  those  "  whose  tongue,"  to  use  Pe- 
trarch's phrase,  "  was  at  once  their  lance  and  sword, 
their  casque  and  buckler,'"  he  fancied  that  he  had  per- 
formed great  exploits,  and  so  celebrated  them  in  his 
songs.  After  several  singular  adventures,  he  returned  to 
France,  still  enamored  of  the  Viscountess  of  Marseilles, 
although  in  the  mean  time  he  had  married  a  wife  of 
his  own,  and  miserable  at  not  having  obtained  a  return 
of  the  kiss  which  he  had  snatched.  What  Vidal  de- 
manded was  not  a  new  kiss,  but  a  liberal  gift  of  the  old 
one  :  not  to  have  granted  him  this  would  have  been  very 
cruel.  At  the  request  of  her  husband,  the  Viscountess 
yielded  at  last  ;  Vidal  was  satisfied,  and  so  well  satisfied 
that,  after  having  written  a  song  in  commemoration  of 
his  happiness,  he  ceased  to  pursue  an  amour  which  fur- 
nished no  further  theme  for  his  Muse.^ 

Still  more  disposed  than  Pierre  Vidal  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  gifts  of  his  imagination,  GreofFroy  Rudel,  that 
troubadour  of  whom  Petrarch  said,  "  that  he  made  use 
of  the  sail  and  the  oar  to  go  in  search  of  death,"  sang  the 
praises  of  the  Countess  of  Tripoli,  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  but  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in  love  from  the  re- 
ports which  had  been  made  to  him  of  her  beauty  by 
many  pilgrims  on  their  return  from  the  Holy  Land.  He 
sent  his  verses  to  her,  and  "  it  is  highly  probable,"  says 
Pasquier,  "that  he  was  not  without  the  written  thanks 
of  the  lady  ;  which  was  the  cause  that  this  gentleman, 
commanded  more  and  more  by  love,  deliberated  to  sail  to 
her  ;  but,  in  order  not  to  serve  as  a  laughing-stock  to  his 
friends,  he  desired  to  cover  his  voyage  under  a  pretext  of 
devotion,  saying  that  he  was  going  to  visit  the  holy  places 

"A  cui  la  lingua 

Lancia  e  spada  fù  senipre,  e  scudo  ed  clmo." 

Pc<m)T/(,  "  Trionfo  d'Amore,"  cap  iv. 
*  MiUot's  "  Histoiro  littéraire  des  TroiibadourR,"  vol.  ii.  p.  266. 


32  POETRY  IN  FRANCE   BEFORE 

of  Jerusalem."  Falling  ill  on  the  road,  Geoffroy  arrived 
in  the  port  of  Tripoli,  in  a  dying  state.  The  Countess, 
hearing  of  his  arrival,  "  repaired  immediately  to  the  ship, 
where,  having  taken  the  hand  of  this  poor  languishing 
gentleman,  suddenly,  when  he  heard  that  it  was  the 
Countess,  his  spirits  began  to  return  to  him,  and  it  was 
thought  that  her  presence  would  serve  as  his  medicine  : 
but  their  joy  was  short  ;  for  when,  though  quite  weak, 
he  was  desirous  to  use  beautiful  language,  to  thank  her 
for  the  honor  which  he  had  received  from  her  without 
having  deserved  it,  scarcely  had  he  opened  his  mouth, 
than  his  voice  died  out,  and  he  rendered  his  soul  to  the 
other  world.'"  According  to  other  accounts,  the  Count- 
ess was  more  tender,  and  finding  Geoffroy  on  the  point 
of  death,  kissed  him.  Her  kiss  restored  him  to  conscious- 
ness ;  he  opened  his  eyes  and  died,  thanking  Providence 
for  his  happiness.  Of  a  truth,  Geoffroy  was  easily  satis- 
fied. 

Such  was  poetic  love  in  Provence,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  thirteenth  century.  A  slight  acquaintance 
with  the  manners  of  this  period  will  suffice  to  convince 
us  that  it  was  not  from  real  life  that  the  poets  of  the 
time  usually  derived  their  inspiration  or  their  subjects. 
Nothing  is  more  prone  to  exaggeration  and  subtlety  than 
that  poetry  which  is  founded  solely  on  the  sentiments  of 
the  heart  or  the  combinations  of  the  mind.  In  the  descrip- 
tion of  an  action  the  poet  has,  for  judges  of  the  veracity 
of  his  narrative,  all  those  who  know  how  things  occur  in 
the  world  beneath  their  eyes  ;  and  the  boldest  man  would 
not  venture,  without  some  hesitation,  or  without  calling 
in  the  aid  of  some  supernatural  power,  to  give  his  hero 
strength  to  knock  down  a  tower  with  a  single  blow,  or  to 

'  "  llochorchcs  dn  la  Franco,"  lib.  vii.   cap.   iv.  vol.    ii.  col.   694,  695. 
MilloCit  "  Histoire  littôrairo  des  Troubadours,"  vol.  i.  p.  85. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.    ■  33 

spring  with  a  singe  leap  over  the  ramparts  of  a  town. 
But  who  can  deny  to  the  poet  the  delicacy  of  his  own 
thoughts,  or  the  violence  of  his  own  inward  feelings  ? 
Who  can  maintain  against  him,  that  things  could  not 
have  presented  themselves  to  his  mind,  or  have  passed 
through  his  heart,  in  the  manner  in  which  he  represents 
them  to  have  done  ?  What  natural  and  sensible  fact  can 
be  exhibited  before  his  eyes  to  convince  him  of  error  ? 
Until  the  multiplicity  of  examples  has  led  to  comparison 
and  reflection  ;  until  reflection  has  learned  to  distinguish 
the  true  from  the  false  ;  until  a  certain  poetical  scale  of 
human  feelings  has  been  established  to  indicate  where 
they  must  stop,  even  in  verse,  it  is  impossible  for  the 
imagination  not  to  lose  itself  in  that  field  which  is  open 
on  all  sides  to  its  caprices;  and  nothing  can  better  ex- 
plain how  our  early  poetry,  whether  Provençal  or  French, 
passes  incessantly,  and  almost  without  any  interval,  from 
truthful  and  touching  sentiments  and  simple  and  natural 
details,  to  the  most  fantastic  ideas  and  the  most  extrava- 
gant conceptions. 

Another  kind  of  poetry,  namely  Satire,  necessarily 
arose  at  an  early  period  in  France,  under  the  influence  of 
those  habits  of  society  and  conversation  which  were  so 
early  cultivated,  and  of  that  semi-despotic,  semi-aristo- 
cratic form  of  monarchy,  which  leaves  the  victims  of 
abuses  no  other  resource  than  complaint  or  ridicule.  We 
meet  with  examples  of  this  satire,  under  the  name  of  Sir- 
ventes,^  among  the  Provencjal  troubadours  of  the  twelfth 


"  Comme  nos  François,  les  premiers  en  Provence, 

Du  sonnet  amoureux  chantèrent  l'excellence, 
Devant  l'Italien  ils  ont  aussi  chantés 
Les  satires  qu'alors  ils  nommoient  sirventes. 
Ou  silventois,  un  nom  qui  des  silvcs  Romaines 
A  pris  son  origine  en  nos  forêts  lointaines." 

La  Fresnayc.-Vaugueiin,  "  Art  Poétique,"  liv.  ii. 


34  POETRY  ]N  FRANCE  BEFORE 

century  :  at  that  time,  as  at  all  times,  complaints  were 
made  of  the  injustice  and  bad  faith  of  men  in  power,  of 
women,  of  physicians,  and  of  inn-keepers.  But  these 
Sirventes  contain  nothing  but  personalities  or  vague  gen- 
eralities. The  troubadours  lament  over  the  vices  of  their 
age,  but  they  display  very  little  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture ;  they  attack  alternately  the  clergy,  the  princes,  and 
especially  Charles  of  Anjou,  whose  sovereignty  in  Pro- 
vence was  particularly  odious  to  them  ;  but  these  local 
satires  exercised  no  influence  upon  modern  satire,  and,  at 
the  present  day,  interest  only  those  men  who  make  the 
history  of  that  age  and  country  their  especial  study. 

After  the  troubadours  of  Provence,  and  the  French 
Trouvères,  "  by  small  degrees  our  poetry,"  says  Pasquier, 
"  lost  its  credit,  and  was  neglected  for  a  considerable  time 
by  France."'  It  was  probably  not,  as  Pasquier  thinks, 
"  because  of  that  great  troop  of  writers  who  indiscrimin- 
ately took  pen  in  hand."''  Some  few  men  of  real  talent, 
by  driving  away  the  multitude  from  a  profession  which 
their  genius  had  raised  above  the  aim  of  common  men, 
might  well  have  saved  themselves  from  contempt;  but 
poets  who  addressed  their  songs  to  none  but  powerful 
nobles,  and  continually  repeated  to  their  patrons  the 
same  compliments  and  phrases,  necessarily  soon  wearied 
their  listeners.  Poetry,  in  France,  gained  fresh  vitality 
by  its  diffusion  among  the  lower  classes  ;  without  losing 
that  amorous  tinge  which  it  retained  from  its  early  hab- 
its, it  combined  therewith  a  satirical  and  sportive  char- 
acter, more  natural  to  subjects  than  to  princes,  and  the 
germ  of  which  might  have  been  perceived  in  its  first  at- 
tempts. One  of  the  oldest  of  French  poems,  the  "  Bible 
Guiot,"  or  "  Huguiot,"  is  nothing  but  a  long  satire  ;  and 
the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose,"  commenced  during  the  course 

'  "  Recherches  (]«  la  France,"  lib.  vii.  cap.  iii.  vol.  ii.  col.  G92.         *  Ibid. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILl.F..  35 

of  the  thirteenth  century,  by  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  is 
only  the  narrative  of  an  amorou:^  dream,  whieh  his  con- 
tinuator,  Jean  de  Meun,  used  as  the  framework  for  a 
satire  on  all  classes. 

Satire  pre-supposes  the  existence  of  determinate  moral 
ideas  ;  and  thus  morality  abounds  in  the  satirical  works 
of  this  period  ;  but  it  is  less  the  morality  which  follows 
as  a  natural  consequence  from  the  narrative  of  human 
actions,  than  that  which  is  the  result  of  reflection,  and 
which  instructs  the  mind  without  animating  it  with  any 
elevated  and  powerful  sentiments.  The  Frenchman,  from 
his  birth  a  keen  observer,  early  became  proficient  in  pen- 
etrating into  the  secret  motives  of  the  conduct  of  men, 
and  in  casting  ridicule  upon  vice  or  folly.  In  our  old 
fabliaux,  and  our  ancient  mémoires,  we  meet  with  mul- 
titudes of  passages  which  display  a  shrewd  and  often 
profound  knowledge  of  the  whimsicalities  that  mingle 
with  our  most  serious  thoughts,  as  well  as  with  our  pet- 
tiest passions.  The  science  of  man,  however,  was  as  yet 
neither  sufficiently  advanced  nor  sufficiently  copious  to 
furnish  poetry  with  great  and  brilliant  subjects  ;  and  it 
was  attempted  to  supply  this  deficiency  by  the  abuse  of 
allegory — a  power  which  was  so  long  dominant  in  French 
poetry,  that  it  becomes  necessary  for  us  briefly  to  indi- 
cate the  causes  by  which  it  was  introduced  and  main- 
tained. 

Allegory  has  been  regarded  as  the  vail  with  which 
truth  deemed  it  prudent  to  cover  herself,  that  she  might 
appear  among  men  without  giving  them  offense.  But  in 
France,  at  this  period,  truth  displayed  herself  unvailed, 
and  satire  laid  no  claim  to  delicacy.  The  allegorical 
personages  of  Jean  de  Meun,  name  things  by  their  right 
names,  and  portray  them  under  their  true  forms  ;  they 
continually  descend  from  the  imaginary  world  in  which 


3fi  POETRY  TN  FRANCE  BFEORE 

they  were  born,  into  the  world  of  realities  which  consti- 
tutes the  subject  of  their  discourse  ;  and  nothing,  in  these 
discourses,  indicates  any  precaution  or  pro})riety  which 
allegory  had  assisted  to  preserve.  We  must  look  else- 
where for  the  reasons  why  this  pretended  poetical  power 
was  so  much  abused  in  France. 

It  was  necessary,  at  any  price,  to  introduce  variety 
and  movement  into  a  poetry  that  was  accustomed  to  deal 
only  with  sentiments  and  ideas  ;  and  by  means  of  per- 
sonification, it  was  thought  that  an  appearance  of  reality 
and  life  might  be  imparted  to  these  ideas  and  sentiments. 
Bel- Accueil,  Franc-  Vouloir,  Male-Bouche,  and  other  per- 
sonages of  the  same  kind,  became  active  beings,  whose 
interests  and  doings  gave  animation,  at  least  in  appear- 
ance, to  a  stage  which  could  not  be  filled  by  a  poetry 
which  was  devoted  to  observations  and  reflections  upon 
human  nature.  Thus,  for  instance,  Huion  de  Mery 
describes  a  "  Tournament  of  Antichrist,"  in  which  the 
Virtues  combat  against  the  Vices  ;  and,  by  the  descrip- 
tion of  a  real  battle,  endeavors  to  satisfy  the  imagination, 
which  would  not  have  been  contented  with  the  moral 
presentation  of  such  a  conflict.'  This  singular  fashion, 
with  which  all  modern  literatures  were,  during  a  consid- 
erable period,  more  or  less  infected,  had  obtained  such 
ascendency  in  France,  that,  in  the  first  moralities  that 
were  performed  in  our  theatres,  the  only  actors  who  were 
introduced  were  such  personages  as  Banquet,  Je  bois  à 
vous,  Je  pleine  cV autant  ;  so  accustomed  had  the  public 
mind  become  to  seek,  in  metaphysical  abstractions,  for 
that  dramatic  movement  which  the  ancients  had  found 
in  the  representation  of  man  and  his  destiny. 

"  At  the  marriage  of  Philibert  Emanuel,  Duke  of  Savoy, 
to  the  sister  of  King  Henry  IL,  a  piece  was  performed, 
'  Pasqv-ier,  "  Recherches  do  la  France,"  lib.  vii.  c.  iii.  col.  690. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  37 

the  action  of  which  was  purely  allegorical.  Paris  ap- 
peared therein  as  the  father  of  three  daiii^hters  whom  he 
desired  to  marry;  and  these  three  daughters  were  the 
three  principal  quarters  of  the  town  of  Paris,  viz.,  the 
university^  the  lovjn  properly  so  called,  and  the  city^ 
which  the  poet  had  personified."  ' 

And  yet  poetry  of  a  much  superior  kind  had  long  been 
known  in  France.  I  refer  to  the  romances  of  chivalry, 
which,  as  pictures  of  manners,  are  as  faithful  as  could 
he  permitted  by  the  system  upon  which  they  were  found- 
ed. But  chivalry  itself,  like  all  the  primitive  institutions 
of  modern  nations,  leaves  the  imagination  in  great  diffi- 
culty to  form  a  clear  and  settled  idea  of  its  character. 
Fantastic  enterprises  and  incredible  adventures  constitute, 
generally  speaking,  the  substance  of  all  chivalric  poems  ; 
but  we,  nevertheless,  find  therein  that  truthfulness  of 
details  and  sentiments  which  is  also  manifested,  almost 
without  alloy,  in  our  fabliaux — a  kind  of  narrative  best 
adapted  to  the  artless,  sportive,  and  somewhat  malicious 
character  of  the  French  mind,  when  left  to  follow  the 
dictates  of  its  true  nature.  "^ 

This  character  our  poetry,  when  it  had  become  some- 
what purified  and  regularized,  displayed  in  the  verses  of 
Marot,  the  true  type  of  the  old  French  style — a  mixture 
of  grace  and  archness,  of  elegance  and  simplicity,  of 
familiarity  and  propriety,  which  has  not  been  entirely 
lost  among  us,  and  which,  perhaps,  forms  the  most  truly 
national  characteristic  of  our  poetical  literature,  and  the 
only  one  for  which  we  are  indebted  to  ourselves  alone, 
and  in  which  we  have  never  been  imitated. 

When  we  name  Marot,  we  are  not  more  than  about 
sixty  years  distant  from  the  birth  of  Corneille  ;  we  are 

'     ^  "Réflexions  Critiques  sur  la  Poésie  et  la  Peinture,"  by  Abbé  Dubos, 
vol.  i.  sect;  XXV.  p.  230,  edit.  1770. 


38  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

entering  upon  the  commencement  of  that  seventeenth 
century,  which  owed  to  him  its  first  splendor.  A  revolu- 
tion in  poetry  was  in  preparation  ;  erudition  was  about  to 
force  its  way  into  its  domain,  not  to  enrich  it  by  a  free 
interchange  of  commodities  upon  fair  and  equal  terms, 
but  to  invade  and  crush  it  beneath  the  weight  of  its 
formidable  power.  The  narrow  sphere  within  which  the 
scope  of  French  poetry  was  at  this  period  confined,  left 
abundant  space  for  the  innovations  of  those  men  who, 
proud  of  their  discoveries  in  the  field  of  ancient  poetry, 
desired  to  transport  them  into  modern  verse,  and  to  reign 
in  our  literature  by  the  help  of  foreign  aid.  We  then 
possessed  no  important  work  from  which  we  could  deduce 
the  rules  of  a  peculiarly  French  poetical  system;  we  had 
nothing  to  put  forward  in  defense  of  our  nationality  ;  the 
old  French  spirit  was  constrained  to  yield,  and  to  allew 
itself  to  be  overwhelmed  beneath  the  riches  of  antiquity, 
which  were  heaped  upon  it  like  the  heterogeneous  sjioils 
of  a  pillaged  province,  rather  than  as  the  products  of  a 
friendly  cou^ltry,  disposed  to  furnish  us  with  whatever 
our  necessities  required.  It  would  have  been  useless  to 
attempt  resistance  against  that  host  of  poets  who  flourish- 
ed during  the  reign  of  Francis  I.,  and  whom  court  favor 
rendered  independent  of  the  public  taste  ;  indeed,  they 
formed  a  public  among  themselves,  most  precious  to 
poetic  vanity,  and  far  more  sensible  to  the  noise  of  praise 
than  to  the  silence  of  pleasure.  "  Under  the  reign  of 
Henry  IT.,"  says  Pasquicr,  "the  early  poets  made  a  pro- 
fession of  satisfying  their  own  minds  rather  than  the 
opinion  of  the  common  people."  Thenceforward,  that 
tinge  of  truth,  which  French  poetry  had  begun  to  derive 
from  the  ideas  and  images  of  common  life,  gave  place  to 
that  spirit  of  clanship  which  can  not  be  avoided  by  persons 
who  are  satisfied  with  hearing  and  pleasing  each  other  ; 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  39 

thenceforward  commenced  the  disappearance  of  that 
simplicity  of  language  which  still  lent  some  charm  to  the 
most  ridiculous  inventions  ;  and  the  language  of  poetry, 
becoming  factitious,  prepared  to  don  those  theatrical 
vestments  which  our  greatest  poets  have  never  ventured, 
without  precaution,  to  cast  aside  in  order  to  restore  the 
pure  forms  of  nature  and  of  truth. 

But,  at  the  same  time,  our  poetry  learned  to  array 
itself  with  a  magnificence  which,  until  then,  it  had  not 
known.  The  treasures  with  which  it  became  enriched 
at  this  period,  although  not  derived  from  its  native  soil, 
largely  contributed  to  raise  it  to  the  rank  which  it  after- 
ward attained.  In  the  hurried  glance  which  we  have 
cast  over  our  old  national  poetry,  we  have  seen  what  voids 
remained  therein  :  we  must  now  examine  how  they 
were  filled  up,  and  seek,  among  the  men  who  occupied 
them,  for  the  precursors  of  those  writers  of  superior 
genius,  who,  through  having  fixed  the  taste  of  posterity, 
are  still  at  the  present  day  our  contemporaries. 

Let  us  not  be  astonished  at  the  names  of  Ronsard, 
Dubartas,  Jodelle,  Baif,  and  others  :  revolutions  in  taste, 
like  those  of  empires,  exert  no  influence  upon  the  duration 
assigned  to  the  course  of  human  life  ;  and  events  some- 
times occur  with  such  rapidity,  that  one  single  generation 
may  witness  an  entire  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  world. 
The  time  of  Marot  borders  so  closely  on  the  seventeenth 
century,  that  many  men  beheld  the  end  of  the  one,  and 
the  beginning  of  the  other.  Mile,  de  G-ournay,  the 
adopted  daughter  of  Montaigne,  plays  a  part  in  most  of 
the  literary  anecdotes  of  the  first  twenty  years  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  We  find  her,  in  Saint-Evremoiid's 
comedy  of  the  "  Academicians,'"  disputing  against  Bois- 
Robert  and  Serisay,  in  favor  of  some  old  words  for  which 

'  Act  ii.  scene  3.     "Œuvres  de  Saint-Evremond,"  vol.  i.  edit.  1753. 


40  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

it  appears  that  she  felt  great  affection.  In  1632,  Chape- 
lain  wrote  to  Godeau,  afterward  Bishop  of  Vence  : 
"  Luckily,  we  did  not  find  the  Demoiselle  de  Montaigne 
at  home,  at  the  visit  which  M.  Conrart  and  I  paid  her 
eight  days  ago.  I  pray  Grod  that  this  may  always  be  the 
case  when  we  call  upon  her  ;  and  that,  without  being  as 
insolent  as  Saint-Amand,  we  may  at  least  be  as  well  rid 
of  her  as  he  is.'"  Mile,  de  Gournay  was  then  sixty-seven 
years  of  age.  The  same  literary  quarrels  and  connections 
which  had  agitated  the  time  of  Ronsard,  furnished  a 
theme  for  verse  to  Régnier,  who  died  young  in  1613  ;* 
and  until  1650,  or  even  later,  the  names  of  Ronsard,  his 
contemporaries,  and  his  rivals,  were  still  the  subject 
of  general  conversation  :'  their  examples  still  served  as 
rules,  and  their  respective  merits  were  still  discussed,  just 
as  we  might  nowadays  discuss  those  of  Corneille  and 
Racine.  Let  us  not,  therefore,  feel  surprised  if  we  some- 
times see  blended  together,  in  the  same  picture,  times 
which  we  are  tempted  to  believe  far  remote  from  one 
another.  At  the  present  day,  we  only  remark  the  two 
extreme  links  of  the  uninterrupted  chain  which  these 
times  form  between  ourselves  and  an  epoch  which  has 
become  foreign  to  us,  and  we  forget  to  cast  our  eyes  on 
the  short  interval  which  connects  them. 

'  "  Mélanges  de  littérature,  tirés  des  lettres  manuscrites  de  M.  Chape- 
lain," p.  10.     Paris,  1726. 

"  Régnier,  the  ncpliow  of  Desportes,  was  a  great  eulogist  of  Ronsard, 
out  of  spite  against  Malherbe,  who  had  manifested  considerable  contempt 
for  his  uncle's  poems. 

^  See  Gucrct's  "  Parnasse  Réformé,"  a  curious  and  amusing  book, 
written  about  the  year  1670,  and  full  of  information  upon  the  literary 
opinions  of  this  period.  At  the  same  time  that  wc  hear  of  Scarron, 
Goinbault,  La  Serre,  and  other  authors  of  the  commencement  of  the 
seventeontli  century,  who  had  then  ceased  to  live,  we  find  Ronsard  and 
Malherbe  disputing  about  their  respective  merits  and  defects,  like  men 
whose  names  and  works  were  still  a  subject  of  conversation.  Ménage, 
Bal/.ac,  La  Bruyère,  and  the  academicians  generally,  in  their  zeal  for  the 
purity  of  the  language,  treat  Ronsard  somewhat  as  an  enemy. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE,  41 

The  literature  of  the  reign  of  Henry  IL,  which  now 
appears  so  strange  when  compared  with  our  own,  stood 
in  no  less  striking  contrast  to  that  which  had  preceded 
it,  and  the  difference  was  not  to  its  advantage.  The 
most  offensive  defects  must  necessarily  mark  the  first 
efforts  of  a  poetry  which,  renouncing  nature,  seeks  all 
its  colors  in  a  borrowed  literature.  Nature  will  one  day 
resume  her  rights,  but  not  until  after  they  have  been 
for  some  time  disregarded  ;  affectation  and  labored  re- 
finement are  the  necessary  results  of  studied  imitation. 
Besides,  the  models  which  oar  poets  then  studied,  to- 
gether with  the  works  of  ancient  writers,  were  not  well 
calculated  to  bring  them  back  to  simplicity  and  natural- 
ness. While  a  conventional  respect  for  old  French  poetry 
compared  with  the  "  Divina  Commedia"  the  "  Roman 
de  la  Rose,"  which  Pasquier  "  would  willingly  have 
matched  with  all  the  poets  of  Italy,"  the  contemporaries 
of  this  same  Pasquier  endeavored  to  imitate  the  style  of 
the  Italians  of  the  school  of  Marini.  It  was  imitation 
of  this  school,  and  not  of  Dante,  Ariosto,  or  Tasso,  that 
formed  the  style  of  Maurice  Seve,  a  Lyonnese  poet,  whom 
Du  Bellay  has  celebrated  as  the  author  of  the  great 
change  which  then  took  place  in  our  poetry.'  His  chief 
merit  was  a  prodigious  perplexity  of  thoughts,  "  with  so 
obscure  and  tenebrous  a  meaning,"  says  Pasquier,  "that 
when  reading  him,  I  should  be  very  pleased  if  I  could 
understand  him,  since  he  desired  not  to  be  understood." 
The  oblivion  into  which  Maurice  Seve  has  fallen  proves 
that  he  was  more  indebted  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived 
than  to  the  talent  which  he  possessed,  for  the  happiness 

*  "  Recherches  de  la  France,"  lib.  vii.  cap.  vi.  vol  ii.  col.  701. 
"  Gentil  esprit,  ornement  de  la  France, 
Qui,  d'Apollon  sainctement  inspiré, 
T'es,  le  premier,  du  peuple  retiré, 
Loin  du  chemin  tracé  par  l'ignorance." 


42  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

of  beholding  the  success  of  innovations,  which  he  was 
probably  not  the  only  person  to  introduce.  Following 
the  example  of  his  Italian  masters,  he  devoted  himself 
to  the  celebration  of  the  charms  of  a  mistress  who  served 
only  as  a  theme  for  his  verses  ;  for  he  taught  that  French 
poetry  should,  in  future,  derive  its  inspiration  from  real 
feelings  alone  ;  and  he  employed  his  old  age  in  inventing 
new  methods  of  singing  the  praises  of  love,  "  seeing  that 
in  his  youth  he  had  followed  in  the  track  of  others." 
Then  commenced  the  reign  of  those  aerial  divinities  who 
gave  their  lovers  no  other  trouble  besides  that  of  laying 
the  daivn,  the  sun,  pearls,  rubies,  and  other  compliment- 
ary epithets,  under  contribution — 

"  Et  toujours  bien  portant,  mourir  par  métaphore." 

These  Platonic  affections  were  so  much  in  vogue  dur- 
ing the  sixteenth  century,  that  Ronsard,  after  having 
celebrated,  in  his  youth,  two  mistresses  whom  he  had 
loved  more  "  familiarly,'"  and  sung  in  the  same  manner, 
"  took  the  advice  of  the  Q,ueen  for  permission,  or  rather 
commands  to  address  himself  to  Hélène  de  Surgères,  one 
of  her  ladies-in-waiting,  whom  he  undertook  to  honor 
and  praise  more  than  to  love  and  serve;"  such  an  amour 
being,  in  the  Queen's  opinion,  more  "  conformable  to  his 
age  and  to  the  gravity  of  his  learning."  As  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  that  an  old  poet  and  erudite  savant 
should  have  a  mistress,"  it  will  readily  be  imagined  that 

'  Claude  Bincl's  "  Vie  tie  Ronsard,"  p.  133. 

*  Racan  and  Mallierhc  "  wore  conversing  one  day  of  their  amours,  that 
is  to  say,  of  thoir  intention  to  clioose  some  lady  of  merit  and  quality  to  be 
the  subject  of  their  verses.  Malherbe  named  Mme.  de  Rambouillet,  and 
Racan,  Mme.  de  'rennes."  Unfortunately,  both  these  ladies  rejoiced  in  the 
name  of  Catherine  ;  "  and  it  was  necessary  to  find  some  anagrams  of  this 
name,  sutficiently  euplionious  to  be  introduced  into  verse."  They  spent 
the  afternoon  in  this  occupation,  doubtless  interesting  enough  to  lovers. 
It  was,  it  is  true,  sufficient  for  Malherbe,  who  was  then  about  seventy 
years  old,  and  so  passionless  that,  as  Bayle  tells  us,  "numbering  his  stock- 


THE   TIME   OF   CORNEILLE.  43 

he  could  leave  her  selection  to  others.  Ronsard  was  not 
even  anxious  that  his  fair  one  should  possess  "  a  pleas- 
ing countenance  ;"  for  Mile,  de  Surgères,  though  a  lady  "  of 
very  good  birth,"  was  so  ugly  that  when,  one  day,  after 
Ronsard's  death,  she  requested  Cardinal  Du  Perron  to  in- 
sert, at  the  commencement  of  the  poet's  works,  a  letter 
attesting  that  he  had  never  loved  her  with  any  but  an 
honorable  atTection,  the  Cardinal  answered,  with  more 
frankness  than  politeness  :  "  Oh!  to  prove  that,  you  need 
only  substitute  your  portrait  instead  of  the  letter.'" 

It  is  not,  however,  to  Ronsard's  forced  and  obligatory 
amours  that  we  must  attribute  his  forced  verses.  His 
last  and  first  loves  equally  inspired  him  with  verses  full 
of  grace,   as  well  as  with  verses  of  singular  form,'^  rc- 

ings  by  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  for  fear  of  not  wearing  them  in  pairs, 
he  confessed  one  day,  that  he  had  as  many  as  went  down  to  the  letter  L." 
('■  Dictionnaire  historique  et  critique,"  sub  voce  Malherbe,  note  B.)  Racan, 
who  was  thirty-four  years  younger,  took  the  matter  rather  more  seriously  ; 
"  he  changed  his  poetical  love  into  a  real  and  legitimate  afiection,  and  made 
several  journeys  into  Burgundj'  for  this  purpose."  Soc  Raeaii's  "  Vie  de 
Malherbe,"  p.  42.  ^  "  Perroniana,"  sub  tit.      Gournay. 

*  These  are  the  first  stanzas  of  one  of  Ronsard's  songs  to  Hélène  de  Sur- 
gères ;  it  will  be  seen  from  them  that  at  least  he  had  not,  in  his  old  age, 
forgotten  his  best  years  : 

"  Plus  étroit  que  la  vigne  à  l'ormeau  se  marie,  ; 

De  bras  souplement  forts, 
Du  lien  de  tes  mains,  maîtresse,  je  te  prie 
Enlace-moi  le  corps. 

En  feignant  de  dormir,  d'une  mignarde  face 

Sur  mon  front  penche-toi  ;  ■: 

Inspire,  en  me  baisant,  ton  haleine  et  ta  grâce, 
Et  ton  cœur  dedans  moi. 

Puis  appuyant  ton  sein  sur  le  mien  qui  se  pâme, 

Pour  mon  mal  appaiser. 
Serre  plus  fort  mon  col  et  me  redonne  l'âme 

Par  l'esprit  d'un  baiser. 

Si  tu  me  fais  ce  bien,  par  tes  yeux  je  te  jure, 

Serment  qui  m'est  si  cher. 
Que  de  tes  bras  aimés  aucune  autre  aventure 

Ne  pourra  m'arracher. 


44  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

markable  for  that  erudite  obscurity  which  Pasquicr,  his 
friend  and  admirer,  is  careful  not  to  compare  with  that 
of  Maurice  Seve,  "  inasmuch  as  it  was  occasioned  by  his 
learning  and  lofty  conceptions."  His  is  not,  in  fact,  the 
obscurity  of  a  subtle  mind,  tormenting  itself  to  create 
something  out  of  nothing  ;  it  is  that  of  a  copious  and 
powerful  intellect,  embarrassed  with  its  own  wealth,  and 
not  yet  knowing  how  to  regulate  its  employment.    "  He  is 

Mais  souflrant  doucement  le  joug  de  ton  empire, 

Tant  soit-il  rigoureux, 
Dans  les  Champs-Elysées  une  même  navire 

Nous  passera  tous  deux." 

The  followmg  is  a  sonnet  which  Ronsard  wrote  for  his  first  mistress,  Cas- 
sandra, whose  classical  name  had  gone  a  great  way  to  gain  his  afTection  ; 

"  Je  ne  suis  point,  ma  guerrière  Cassandre, 
Ny  Myrmidon,  ny  Dolope  soudart 
Ny  cet  archer  dont  l'homicide  dart 
Tua  ton  frère,  et  mit  ta  ville  en  cendre. 

Un  camp  armé,  pour  esclave  te  rendre, 
Du  camp  d'Aulide  en  ma  faveur  ne  part  ; 
Et  tu  ne  vois,  au  pied  de  tout  rempart, 
Pour  t'enlever  mille  barques  descendre. 

Hélas!  je  suis  ce  Corèbe  insensé. 
Dont  le  cœur  vit  mortellement  blessé, 
Non  de  la  main  du  grégeois  Pénélée, 

Mais  de  cent  traits  qu'un  areherot  vainqueur 
Par  une  voie  en  mes  yeux  recelée. 
Sans  y  penser,  me  tira  dans  le  cœur." 

If  Ronsard's  Cassandra  were  not  well  acquainted  with  the  Greek  heroes 
and  their  history,  as  well  as  with  the  tale  of  Troy,  she  must  have  had  some 
difficulty  to  understand  this  sonnet,  which  is,  nevertheless,  not  the  most  ob- 
scure of  his  productions.  It  was  to  beauties  of  this  kind  that  Ronsard  was 
indebted  for  the  commentary  which  the  learned  Miirctus  wrote  on  his  works, 
during  his  lifetime,  which  was  regarded  as  a  mark  of  high  honor.  "  Mure- 
tus,  who  possessed  such  immense  erudition,"  says  the  "  Menagiana," 
"tliought  Ronsard's  works  so  excellent  that  he  made  notes  upon  some  of 
them."  (Vol.  iii.,  p.  103,  3d  edition.)  And  Muretus  himself  declares,  with 
great  satisfaction,  in  the  Prefice  to  liis  (commentary  on  Kons;ir(rs  first  book 
of  yl?7!0)/r.s',  "that  there  were  some  sonnets  in  that  book  which  would  never 
have  been  properly  understood  by  any  man,  if  the  author  had  not  familiarly 
declared  their  meaning  to  myself  or  some  other  person." 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  45 

a  plenteous  water-spring,  it  must  be  admitted,"  says  Bal- 
zac ;  "but  he  is  a  troubled  and  muddy  spring — a  spring 
in  which  there  is  not  only  less  water  than  mire,  but  so 
much  mire  as  to  prevent  the  water  from  flowing  freely 
out."  '  Ronsard  had  learned,  from  the  perusal  of  ancient 
authors,  in  what  our  poetry  was  deficient,  and  he  thought 
he  possessed,  in  his  own  lofty  and  really  poetical  imagin- 
ation, ample  stores  to  supply  the  deficiency.  But  he  did 
not  perceive  the  best  and  truest  method  of  doing  this. 
French  literature,  in  his  opinion,  could  only  gain  by  the 
indiscriminate  adoption  of  whatever  he  admired  in  the 
old  writers.  He  did  not  discern,  between  certain  forms 
of  the  Grreek  and  Latin  languages  and  the  character  of 
our  own  tongue,  those  antipathies  which  can  only  be  dis- 
covered by  constant  observation.  Science  had  not,  at 
that  time,  become  blended  with  taste,  and  until  her 
claims  were  brought  forward,  it  was  impossible  to  dis- 
tinguish clearly  between  what  should  be  adopted  and 
what  rejected.  Ronsard  rejected  nothing;  his  special 
object  was  to  infuse  richness  and  energy  into  our  lan- 
guage ;  and,  encouraged  by  the  example  of  Homer,  who 
had  interwoven  into  his  poems  the  difterent  dialects  of 
G-reece,  he  says  in  his  "  Abrégé  de  l'Art  Poétique  Fran- 
çais :"  "  Thou  shalt  dextrously  choose,  and  appropriate 
to  thy  work,  the  most  significant  words  of  the  dialects 
of  our  France,  when  thou  hast  none  so  good  nor  so  suit- 
able in  thine  own  nation  ;  and  be  not  careful  whether 
the  vocables  be  of  G-asoony,  or  Poitou,  or  Normandy,  or 
Mans,  or  Lyons,  or  of  any  other  district,  provided  they 
be  good,  and  signify  properly  what  thou  wishest  to  say." 
Montaigne  was  of  the  same  opinion  :  "  And  let  Gascon 
step  in  if  French  will  not  suffice,"'  he  used  to  say,  when 

'  "Œuvres  de  Balzac,"  31st  Entretien. 
^  Montaigne'' s  "  Essays,"  book  i.  cap.  xxv 


40  POETRY  L\  FRANCE  BEFORE 

speaking  of  the  little  care  which  he  took  to  refine  his 
style,  Ronsard  carried  this  license  so  far  as  frequently 
to  employ  words  which  belonged  to  no  country  what- 
ever ;  lengthening  or  shortening  terms  as  the  metre  of 
his  verse  required;  often  changing  the  vowels  of  which 
his  words  were  composed  in  order  to  adapt  them  to  his 
rhyme  ;  and  transferring  bodily,  into  his  verses,  G-reek 
words  whose  French  termination  only  separated  them 
from  their  own  language  without  admitting  them  into 
any  other.     Thus  he  says  to  his  mistress  : 

"  Etes-vous  pas  ma  seule  Entclcchie  ?" 

And  this  word,  borrowed  from  Aristotle's  philosophy,  is 
explained  by  Muretus  to  mean,  "  my  sole  perfection,  my 
only  soul,  which  causes  in  me  all  movement,  both  natu- 
ral and  spontaneous."  We  certainly,  in  this  case,  re- 
quire a  commentary  to  explain  the  thought  as  well  as  to 
elucidate  the  expression. 

In  his  epitaph  on  Marguerite  of  France  and  Francis  I., 
Ronsard  regrets,  by  a  rhetorical  figure,  that  he  can  not 
employ  these  three  words  : 

"  Ocymore,  Dyspotme,  Oligochronien, 

and,  by  the  expression  of  his  regret  constitutes  them  into 
a  verse. 

Nor  is  this  all  :  the  richness  and  variety  which  the 
Grreek  language  possesses  by  reason  of  the  facility  with 
which  it  can  form  words  by  regular  associations  were  a 
sad  temptation  to  Ronsard.  Ho  became  desirous  to  trans- 
fer this  liberty  into  the  French  language,  and  so  he  de- 
scribes— 

"  Du  moulin  Irise-gram  la  pierre  rondo-plate." 

Ho  did  not  perceive  that  the  absence  of  roots  properly 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  47 

belonging  to  the  language,  the  deficiency  of  particles, 
and  the  permanence  of  terminations  would  render  these 
aggregations  impossible  ;  and  that  the  want  of  sonorous 
vowels  would  cause  the  connection  of  words,  devoid  alike 
of  elegance  and  euphony,  to  result  in  a  jingle  most  un- 
pleasant to  the  ear. 

Finally,  envying  the  ancients  the  freedom  of  their  in- 
versions, Ronsard  wished  it  were  possible — 

"  Tirer  avecq'  la  ligne,  en  trcmhlaiif  emporté. 
Le  crédule  poisson  prins  à  l'haim  empasté." 

This  intemperateness  of  ideas,  this  effervescence  of  a 
genius  that  was  unable  to  continue  in  the  good  method  of 
which  it  had  caught  a  glimpse,  drew  down  upon  Ronsard 
the  contempt  of  those  writers  who,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  follow^ed  out,  with  more  v/isdom  and  good  taste, 
the  ])ath  which  he  had  contributed  to  open.  The  men 
who  etlect  revolutions  are  always  despised  by  those  who 
profit  by  them.  That  disorderliuess  which  invariably 
accompanies  the  efforts  of  an  ardent  mind  to  start  on 
a  fresh  track  ;  that  confusion  which  it  is  impossible  to 
avoid  in  the  employment  of  means  as  yet  imperfectly 
understood  ;  that  incoherence  which  naturally  subsists 
between  the  habits  to  which  a  man  has  long  been  accus- 
tomed and  those  which  are  entirely  new  to  him — all 
these  causes  give  to  the  first  inventions  of  such  innova- 
tors an  imperfect  and  monstrous  appearance,  in  which 
the  eyes  can  scarcely  discern  the  primitive  features  of  a 
beauty  which  time  will  manifest  by  giving  polish  to  the 
work.  "  He  is  not,"  says  Balzac  of  Ronsard,  "  he  is  not 
a  poet  complete  ;  he  is  the  commencement  and  material 
of  a  poet  ;  in  his  works  v/e  perceive  the  nascent  and 
semi-animated  parts  of  a  body  which  is  in  process  of  for- 
mation, but  which  is  never  brought  to  completion.'" 
"  Œuvres  de  Balzac,"  31st  Entretien. 


48  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

This  body  was  French  poetry,  such  as  it  was  when 
Balzac  and  his  contemporaries  began  to  admire  it.  Ron- 
sard  traced  its  first  lineaments,  full  of  lofty  images, 
mythological  allusions,  and  a  poetic  spirit  previously 
unknown.  He  was  the  first  to  comprehend  the  dignity 
which  befits  great  subjects,  and  which  gained  for  him 
during  his  lifetime  the  title  of  "  Prince  of  Poets,"  just 
as  a  similar  elevation  of  style  procured  for  Corneille  the 
cognomen  of  "  The  Great."  We  are  probably  indebted 
to  Ronsard  for  the  ode  and  the  heroic  poem  ;^  his  odes, 
with  all  their  defects,  were  possessed  of  sufficient  beau- 
ties to  herald  the  advent  of  the  lyric  muse  among  us, 
and  were  the  prelude  to  those  of  Mallierbe,  which  are  our 
models  in  that  style  of  composition.  If  the  Franciad 
taught  no  one  any  thing,  the  acknowledged  difficulty  of  a 
French  Epic  may  serve  as  an  excuse  for  the  man  who 
first  attempted  to  surmount  it.  But  what  Ronsard  es- 
pecially changed  was  the  general  tone  of  French  poetry, 
to  which  he  imparted  that  elevation,  and  that  lively 
though  somewhat  studied  movement,  which  truly  consti- 
tute poetry.  A  single  example  will  suffice  to  give  some 
idea  of  the  revolution  which  he  effected  in  this  respect  ; 
I  extract  it  from  the  commencement  of  one  of  his  songs  : 

"  Quand  j'estois  jeune,  ains-  qu'une  amour  nouvelle 
Ne  se  fust  prise  en  ma  tendre  moelle, 

Je  vivois  bien  heureux. 
Comme  à  l'envy  les  plus  accortes  fille 
Se  travoilloient  par  leurs  flammes  gentilles. 

De  me  rendre  amourex. 

Mais  tout  ainsy  qu'un  beau  poulain  farouche 
Qui  n'a  masché  le  frein  dedans  sa  bouche. 

Va  seul  et  escarté 
N'ayant  soucy.  sinon  d'un  pied  superbe, 
A  mille  bonds,  fouler  les  fleurs  et  l'herbe. 

Vivant  en  liberté  ; 


'  Recherches  de  la  France,"  lib.  vii.  cap.  vi.  vol   ii.  col.  705. 
^  Ahm,  before. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  49 

Ores  il  court  Ic  long  d'un  beau  rivage  ; 
Ores  il  erre  en  quelque  bois  sauvage, 

Fuyant  de  saut  en  saut  : 
De  toutes  part  les  poutres'  hennissantes 
Luy  font  l'amour,  pour  néant  blandissantes,' 

A  luy  qui  ne  s'en  chaut. 

Ainsy  j'allois  desdaignant  les  pucelles 
Qu'on  estimoit  en  beautés  les  plus  belles 

Sans  répondre  à  leur  vueil  :^ 
Lors  je  vivois,  amoureux  de  moi-même. 
Content  et  gai,  sans  porter  face  blesme, 

Ny  les  larmes  à  l'œil. 

J'avois  escrite  au  plus  haut  de  la  face, 
Avecq'  l'honneur  une  agréable  audace, 

Pleine  d'un  franc  désir  : 
Avecq'  le  pied  marchoit  ma  fantaisie 
Où  je  voulois,  sans  peur  ni  jalousie, 

Seigneur  de  mon  plaisir." 

Marot  also  has  developed  the  same  idea  in  one  of  his 
poems  : 

"  Sur  le  printemps  de  ma  jeunesse  folle. 
Je  ressemblois  l'arondelle  qui  vole 
Puis  çà,  puis  là  ;  l'âge  me  conduisoit 
Sans  peur  ne  soin,  où  le  cœur  me  disoi 
En  la  forest,  sans  la  crainte  des  loups, 
Je  m'en  allois  souvent  cueillir  le  houx. 
Pour  faire  glus  à  prendre  oyseaux  ramages 
Tous  différents  de  chantz  et  de  plumages  ;  -         1. 

Ou  me  souloys,  pour  les  prendre,  entremettre 
A  faire  bries'  ou  caiges  pour  les  mettre  :  ,  ■ 

Ou  transnouois''  les  rivières  profondes, 
Ou  renforçois  sur  le  genouil  les  fondes  ;® 
Puis  d'en  tirer  droict  et  loin  j'apprenois 
Pour  chasser  loups  et  abattre  des  noix." 

The  difference  between  the  two  poets  is  striking.  In 
Marot,  all  is  simple  and  natural  ;  in  Ronsard  ail  is  noble 
and  brilliant.  In  the  last  poem,  the  facts  are  such  as 
might  have  been  noticed  by  a  child  ;  in  the  first,  the  de- 
tails are  such  as  a  poet  alone  could  have  imagined  :  there 
is  all  the  difference  between  a  simple  narrative  and  an  ani- 

'  Poutres,  mares.  '  ♦  Bries,  snares  to  catch  birds. 

'  Blandissantes,  caressing.  *  Transnouois,  swam  across. 

'   VueiU  wish,  desire.  ^  Fondes,  leaves. 


50  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

mated  picture — between  our  old  poetry  and  our  concep- 
tion of  poetry  at  the  present  day.  Those  who  prefer  the 
simple  truth  to  all  else  will  regret  Marot  and  his  time  ; 
those  who  desire  that  truth  should  be  elevated  to  its 
highest  pitch,  and  that  before  coming  to  us  it  should  pass 
through  an  imagination  capable  of  exciting  our  own,  will 
require  that  to  the  natural  simplicity  of  Marot  should  be 
added  the  brilliant  colors  of  Ronsard. 

After  the  two  examples  which  have  been  quoted,  it 
is  undoubtedly  somewhat  surprising  to  read  this  passage 
in  La  Bruyère: — "Marot,  both  by  his  turn  of  thought 
and  style  of  composition,  seems  to  have  written  subse- 
quently to  Ronsard  ;  between  the  former  author  and  our- 
selves, there  is  only  the  difference  of  a  few  words.  Ron- 
sard  and  his  contemporary  authors  did  more  injury  than 
service  to  style  ;  they  delayed  it  on  the  road  to  per- 
fection ;  they  exposed  it  to  the  danger  of  losing  its  way 
forever,  and  never  regaining  the  right  path.  It  is  as- 
tonirshing  that  the  works  of  Marot,  so  natural  and  easy 
as  they  are,  did  not  make  Ronsard,  who  was  full  of  poetic 
spirit  and  enthusiasm,  a  greater  poet  than  either  Ronsard 
or  Marot  actually  were.'" 

How  comes  it  that,  after  having  allowed  to  Ronsard 
much  "  poetic  spirit  and  enthusiasm" — after  having  said 
that  "  Ronsard  and  Balzac,  each  in  his  own  walk,  pos- 
sessed enough  good  and  enough  bad  qualities  to  form 
after  them  very  great  writers  in  verse  and  prose"  ' — La 
Bruyère  totally  disregards  the  great  influence  exercised 
by  Ronsard  over  the  lofty  character  of  the  poetry  of  the 
age  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  does  not  perceive  how  far  distant 
Marot  was  from  any  thing  of  the  kind  ?  How  was  it 
that  he  did  not  see  that,  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  lan- 
guage, Ronsard's  poetic  spirit  bordered  much  more  closely 

'  La  Bnnjcic's  "  Characters,"  cap.  i.  vol.  i.  p.  116,  edit.  1759.  '  Ibid. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  51 

on  that  of  the  seventeenth  century,  than  the  simple  and 
unaffected  tone  of  Marot  ?  The  reason  is  obvious  :  La 
Bruyère,  living  in  the  midst  of  the  magnificence  of  the 
poetry  of  his  own  time,  never  thought  of  the  efforts  re- 
quired to  raise  it  to  that  proud  position  ;  he  felt  the 
necessity  of  ceaselessly  combating  against  that  want  of 
naturalness,  and  that  inflation  of  language,  into  which 
our  poetry  was  always  ready  to  fall  ;  and  finding,  in  Ron- 
sard,  the  type  of  these  defects,  and  in  Marot  a  natural- 
ness, the  somewhat  naked  simplicity  of  which  he  did  not 
fear  would  be  exaggerated  by  subsequent  authors,  he 
attacked  what  he  considered  excessive  in  the  one  poet, 
without  perceiving  the  deficiencies  of  the  other.  Besides, 
a  man,  however  superior  he  may  be,  unless  he  has  cause 
to  complain  of  the  opinions  of  his  age  and  of  the  reputa- 
tion which  they  bestow  upon  himself,  always  shares  in 
them  to  a  certain  extent  :  and  we  are  rarely  disposed  to 
feel  great  enthusiasm  for  our  immediate  predecessors, 
whose  faults  we  have  had  to  correct,  and  whose  beauties 
are  frequently  displayed  to  our  disadvantage,  Malherbe 
and  his  school  naturally  despised  Ronsard  and  returned 
to  Marot,  in  whom  Ronsard,  on  his  side,  as  he  tells  us 
himself,  had  found  only  "  vessels  whence  he  drew,  as  by 
industrious  washing,  rich  sediments  of  gold."  '  We  must 
allow  the  judgment  of  posterity  itself  to  ripen,  and  not 
fear  to  reflect  upon  what  it  originally  thought  ;  for  it  also 
is  subject  to  re-action,  and  requires  time  to  form  a  defin- 
ite opinion. 

La  Bruyère  expresses  his  alarm  at  the  danger  in  which 
Ronsard  involved  the  French  language,  which,  he  says, 
he  might  have  spoiled  "  forever."  Ronsard  could  not 
have  done  this,  for  he  did  not  do  it  ;  and  in  order  to  in- 
flict an  eternal  injury,  a  man  must  possess  power  to  pre- 

'  BineVs  "  Vie  de  Ronsard,"  p.  121. 


52  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

vent  truth  and  reason  from  surviving  him.  "Whatever  in- 
fluence may  be  ascribed  to  the  defects  of  a  man  of  talent 
or  genius,  we  may  trust  to  his  imitators  to  render  them 
speedily  so  ridiculous  that  even  children  will  point  their 
finger  at  them.  These  awkward  imitations  at  first  ob- 
tain from  the  public  an  admiration  which  inflames  the 
indignation  of  the  wise,  who  strive  to  discountenance 
them.  Ronsard  had  taught  the  art  of  employing  grand 
and  noble  imagery  :  and  plagiarists  thought  it  was  enough 
to  accumulate  vast  ideas,  to  express  feeble  thoughts  in 
inflated  language,  and  to  exaggerate  those  which  the 
imagination  was  unable  to  conceive.  Thus  Du  Bartas 
describes  the  world  before  the  creation  of  man,  as — 

" Une  forme  sans  forme, 

Une  pile  confuse,  une  masse  difforme, 
D'abismes  un  abisrae,  un  corps  mal  compassé, 
Un  chaos  de  chaos,  un  tas  mal  entassé. 


La  terre  estoit  au  ciel,  et  le  ciel  en  la  terre  ; 
Le  feu,  la  terre,  l'air  se  tenoient  dans  la  mer; 
La  mer,  le  feu,  la  terre  estoient  logez  en  l'air, 
L'air,  la  mer  et  le  feu  dans  la  terre,  et  la  terre 
Chez  l'air,  le  feu,  la  mer, "  ' 

And  Pasquier,  who  quotes  these  lines,  declares  that  if,  in 
the  remainder  of  the  piece,  Du  Bartas  was  supported  by 
Ovid,  he  has,  "  in  these  last  verses,  rendered  himself  in- 
imitable."' 

The  disorder  which  reigned  in  taste  called  loudly  for 
reform.  "At  length  came  Malherbe,"  and  not  before  his 
presence  was  needed.  Wisdom,  taste,  and  respect  for 
propriety  were  required  to  be  among  the  chief  merits  of 
the  superior  man  who  was  destined  to  gain  distinction 
for  himself  amid  all  this  licence  :  and  that  providential 
law  which,  in  literature  as  in  States,  produces  men  of 

'  Du  Bartax,  "  Premier  Jour  de  la  premiere  Semaine." 

'  "  Recherches  dp  la  France,"  lib.  vii.   cap.  x.  vol.  i.  col.  722. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  53 

genius  varying  according  to  the  necessities  of  the  times 
in  which  they  appear,  brought  Numa  into  the  world  after 
Romulus,  Racine  after  Corneille,  and  Malherhe  after 
Ronsard. 

Poets  were  then  entering  into  a  position  favorable  for 
the  introduction  of  the  change  about  to  be  wrought  in 
literature.     The  Court,  thenceforward  fixed  and  undis- 
turbed, anxious  to  find  pleasures  to  fill  the  void  which 
had  long  been  occupied  by  public  business,  was  about  to 
establish  another  arbiter  of  taste  than  a  coterie  of  lit- 
erary men,  isolated  from  the  public,  and  consequently 
free  to  yield  to  the  caprices  of  their  own  genius,  without 
consulting  the  authority  of  common  reason.     Poetry  in 
France,  being  generally  irrelevant  to  the  great  interests 
of  life,  has  taken  but  little  part  in  the  troubles  which 
have  agitated  the  nation  :  a  people,  ever  disposed  to  ex- 
ternal movements  and  listening  and  reflecting  only  when 
it  can  not  act,  has  left  no  place  for  the  Muses  but  that 
which  it  has  been  obliged  to  give  to  repose  ;  and  it  is 
perhaps   permissible  to   attribute   to  the  serious  affairs 
which  occupied  men's  minds  under  Francis  II.,  Charles 
IX.,  and  Henry  III.,  that  disdain  which  the  poets  felt  for 
a  public  which  could  not  yield  them  sufficient  attention. 
The  Court  had,  indeed,  served  as  their  place  of  refuge; 
and  notwithstanding  the  slight  taste  which  Henry  II.  felt 
at  first  for  Ronsard's  verses,  a  celebrated  poet  is,  in  the 
eyes  of  his  prince,  a  piece  of  property  which  he  would  be 
loth  to  lose.     Charles  IX.,  who  wrote  verses  himself,  loved 
poetry  with  the  love  of  a  poet  whose  taste  had  been  form- 
ed by  contemporary  writers  ;  and  his  successor,  Henry 
III.,  protected  poetry,  without  having  time  to  form  an 
opinion  upon  it.     The  simple,  practical,  and  somewhat 
illiterate  rule  of  Henry  IV.  was  required  to  dispel  that 
superficial  science  and  that  inflated  grandiloquence  which 


54  POPn'flY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

had  long  held  sway  in  the  realms  of  poesy  ;  and  the 
Court,  thenceforward  at  one  with  the  nation,  speedily 
resumed,  over  tastes,  manners,  and  ideas,  that  empire 
which,  in  France,  it  does  not  easily  lose.  Malherbe  was 
the  poet  of  the  Court  :  constantly  occupied  in  ministering 
to  its  gratification,  and  in  humanizing  for  it  that  lit- 
erature in  which  it  was  beginning  to  take  delight,  he 
used  frequently  to  say,  "  especially  when  he  was  blamed 
for  not  accurately  following  the  sense  of  those  authors 
whom  he  translated  or  paraphrased,  that  he  was  not  pre- 
paring meat  for  cooks  ;  as  much  as  to  say,  that  he  cared 
little  about  being  praised  by  literary  persons  who  under- 
stood the  books  which  he  had  translated,  provided  he  was 
approved  by  the  Court."  '  The  revolution  which  had  taken 
pla;ce  in  reaction  upon  that  attempted  by  Ronsard,  ap- 
peared complete  ;  but  the  movements  of  the  human  mind 
always  result  in  progress,  and  never  in  any  but  apparent 
retrogression.  In  these  unfaithful  but  elegant  transla- 
tions, the  simple  and  flowing  style  of  which  enraged  Mile, 
de  Gournay,  who  called  them  "  a  ripple  of  clear  water,"  ^ 
the  language  began  to  acquire  a  precision  which  com- 
merce with  the  learned  languages  could  alone  have  im- 
parted :  and  in  Malherbe's  verses,  which  are  frequently 
adorned  with  beauties  derived  from  ancient  sources,'  it 

'  Racan,  "  Vie  de  Malherbe." 

^  Bayle,  "  Dictionnaire  historique  et  critique,"  article  Malherbe,  note  E. 
^  For  example,  in  the  S/a7izas  addressed  by  Malherbe  to  Henry  IV., 
when  he  went  into  the  Limousin,  in  which  we  find  several  passages  suc- 
cessfully imitated  from  Virgil's  fourth  eclogue.  The  imitation  is  some- 
times sufficiently  different  from  the  original  to  be  able  to  claim  the  merit 
of  invention,  as  in  tlii.s  stanza  : 

"  Tu  nou.s  rendras  alors  nos  douces  destinées  : 
Nous  ne  reverrons  plus  ces  fâcheuses  années 
Qui,  pour  les  plus  heureux   n'ont  produit  que  des  pleurs. 
Toute  sorte  de  biens  comblera  nos  familles  ; 
La  moisson  de  nos  champs  lassera  les  faucilles, 
Et  les  fruits  passeront  la  promesse  des  fleurs." 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  55 

preserved,  from  the  character  given  it  by  Ronsard,  a  dig- 
nity and  richness  of  style  of  which  Marot's  time  had  no 
conception,  while  it  also  became  more  and  more  subject  to 
elegant  correction.*  Even  the  last  of  Ronsard's  partisans, 
by  resisting  improvement,  contributed  to  render  it  more 
complete  and  certain.  It  was  not  without  opposition 
that  Malherbe  brought  back  to  the  true  genius  of  the 
language,  and  to  the  style  best  adapted  to  the  nation,  a 
poetry  which  Ronsard  had  diverted  therefrom.  The  poets, 
accustomed  to  draw  their  allusions  from  the  obscurest 
fables  of  mythology,  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  speak 
in  French  of  subjects  calculated  to  interest  Frenchmen. 
This  innovation  was  charsred  against  Malherbe  and  his 
school  as  a  want  of  respect  for  antiquity  ;  thus  G-om- 
baud,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Mme.  Desloges,  says 
to  Racan: 

"  C'est  TOUS  dont  l'audace  nouvelle 
A  rejeté  l'antiquité 


Vous  aimez  mieux  croire  à  la  mode  ; 
C'est  bien  la  foi  la  plus  commode 
Pour  ceux  que  le  monde  a  charmés."^ 


'  From  among  many  examples  that  I  might  quote,  I  will  select  one 
which  is  not  very  widely  known.  It  is  a  strophe  from  the  Ode  to  Marie 
de  Medici  (which,  notwithstanding  three  prosaic  lines,  is  a  beautiful  poem), 
in  which,  in  order  to  say  that  a  king  can  not  justly  be  called  great  unless 
he  has  reigned  in  stormy  and  difficult  times,  he  exclaims  ; 
"  Ce  n'est  point  aux  rives  d'un  fleuve, 

Où  dorment  les  vents  et  les  eaux, 

Que  fait  sa  véritable  preuve 

L'art  de  conduire  les  vaisseaux  : 

Il  faut,  en  la  plaine  salée, 

Avoir  lutté  contre  Malée, 

Et  pris  du  naufrage  dernier, 

S'être  ^'u  dessous  les  Pléiades, 

Eloigné  de  ports  et  de  rades. 

Pour  être  cru  bon  marinier." 
*  "  Recueil  des  plus  belles   Pièces  des  Poètes  Français,  depuis  Villon 
jusqu'à  Benscrade,"  vol.  iii.  p.  58. 


58  rOETRY  IN  FRANCE   BEFORE 

And  Régnier,  addressing  himself  to  Ronsard,  gives  vent 
to  his  irritation  against — 

Ces  resveurs  dont  la  muse  insolente, 

Censurant  les  plus  vieux,  insolemment  se  vante 

De  réformer  les  vers,  non  les  tiens  seulement, 

Mais  veulent  déterrer  les  Grecs  du  monument. 

Les  Latins,  les  Hébreux,  et  toute  l'antiquaille, 

Et  leur  dire  à  leur  nez  qu'ils  n'ont  rien  fait  qui  vaille."* 

Malherbe's  style,  which,  through  seeking,  sometimes 
without  success,  to  avoid  inflation,  occasionally  fell  into  triv- 
iality, was  also  a  subject  of  censure.     Régnier  exclaims  : 

"  Comment  !  il  nous  faut  donq',  pour  faire  une  œuvre  grande, 
Qui  de  la  calomnie  et  du  temps  se  défende, 
Qui  trouve  quelque  place  entre  les  bons  autheura. 
Parler  comme  à  Saint- Jean  parlent  les  crocheteursî"* 

Ronsard,  by  constituting  the  poets  themselves  the  sole 
arbiters  of  taste,  had  rendered  it  too  easy  for  them  to 
write  verses  which  were  intended  to  please  themselves 
alone  ;  Malherbe,  by  familiarising  the  fashionable  world 
with  poetry,  made  it  too  easy  for  them  to  believe  them- 
selves poets,  whenever  they  desired  to  be  such.  But  this 
period  of  the  triumph,  and  consequently  of  the  decay  of 
the  new  school,  had  not  yet  arrived  ;  Maynard,  Racan, 
and  a  few  others,  were  laboring,  conjointly  with  their 
master,  to  maintain  its  glory  ;  the  victories  which  they 
still  had  to  gain  over  the  ignorance  of  their  auditors, 
still  furnished  them  with  a  powerful  motive  for  studious 
efforts.  Malherbe  used  frequently  to  say  :  "  Though 
for  so  many  years  I  have  been  laboring  to  degasconize 
the  Court,  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  succeed  ;"'  and 
this  g-ascomstn  w^as  the  ever  present  foe  which  compelled 
men  of  letters  to  watch  with  unceasing  vigilance  over  the 
purity  of  the  language. 

'  Régnier,  Satire  ix.  '  Ibid. 

'  "Œuvres  de  Balzac,  Socrate  Chrestien,  Discours  10." 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  57 

This  Grascon  Court,  however,  would  not  have  tolerated 
an  absolute  want  of  discretion  in  its  treatment.  "  To 
submit  to  tutelage,"  said  Henry  IV.,  to  the  Assembly  of 
Notables  at  Rouen,  "is  a  fancy  which  never  lays  hold 
on  kings,  greybeards,  and  conquerors  :"  he  might  have 
added,  "  and  people  of  my  country."  Respect  for  the 
decisions  of  the  Court,  anxiety  to  please  the  Court,  and 
conformity  to  the  manners  of  the  Court,  became,  under 
the  most  popular  of  our  monarchs,  the  dominant  fash- 
ion, and  almost  the  duty  of  the  French  nation.  After 
times  of  rebellion,  it  is  usual  to  carry  the  virtue  of  sub- 
mission beyond  its  ordinary  bounds  :  Malherbe  went  so 
far  as  to  say  that  "  the  religion  of  honest  folks  was  the 
same  As  that  of  their  prince  ;"'  and  a  regard  for  pro- 
prieties was,  as  it  appears,  the  only  feeling  that  he  him- 
self consulted  in  the  last  pious  acts  of  his  life.  "  At  the 
time  of  his  death,"  says  Racan,  "  we  had  much  trouble 
to  induce  him  to  confess,  because  he  said,  he  was  ac- 
customed to  do  so  at  Easter  only.  The  person  who 
induced  him  to  comply  was  Yvrande,  a  gentleman  who 
had  been  brought  up  as  a  page  in  the  King's  stable,  and 
who,  as  well  as  Racan,  was  his  scholar  in  poetry.  What 
he  said  to  persuade  him  to  receive  the  sacraments,  was 
that,  as  he  had  always  made  a  profession  of  living  like 
other  men,  he  should  also  die  like  them  ;  and  Malherbe 
asking  him  what  he  meant,  Yvrande  told  him  that,  when 
other  men  died,  they  confessed,  communicated,  and  re- 
ceived the  other  sacraments  of  the  Church.  Malherbe 
avowed  that  he  was  right,  and  sent  for  the  Vicar  of 
Saint  Grermain,  who  remained  with  him  till  he  ex- 
pired."^ 

If,  therefore,  when  reading  the  poems  of  this  period, 
the  proprieties  appear  to  us  to  have  been  neither  very 
'  Raca7i,  "  Vie  de  Malherbe,"  p.  45.  '  Ibid.   p.  41. 


i8  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

rigid,  nor  very  strictly  observed,  we  must  not  ascribe  the 
blame  to  the  poets:  the  Court  required  nothing  more. 
We  may  discover  in  Malherbe  a  great  many  defects  of 
taste,  and  even  many  grammatical  inaccuracies  ;'  but  he 
had  had  so  many  faults  of  this  kind  to  correct,  that,  not- 
withstanding all  his  deficiencies,  we  are  forced  to  admit 
that  to  him  and  his  pupils  must  be  ascribed  the  merit  of 
having  begun  to  introduce  clearness  and  exactitude  into 
our  language,  and  elegance,  sweetness,  and  harmony  into 
our  poetry. 

In  the  midst  of  this  laborious  purification  of  the  lan- 
guage and  of  poetry,  appear  those  inconveniences  which 
such  a  work  must  necessarily  involve.  Minute  atten- 
tion to  correctness  of  language  is  not  incompatible  with 
genius  ;  but  this  correctness  must  not  be  made  the  chief 
object  of  its  efforts,  or  considered  the  source  of  its  most 
precious  reward  :  a  mind  constantly  bent  on  polishing 
words  rises  with  difficulty  to  lofty  conceptions,  and  the 
ascription  of  great  merit  to  exactness  of  forms  tends  to 
depreciate  the  value  set  on  ideas.  Régnier  brings  it  as  a 
reproach  against  Malherbe  and  his  school,  that 

" leur  savoir  ne  s'étend  seulement 

Qu'à  regratter  un  mot  douteux  au  jugement, 

Prendre  garde  qu'un  qui  ne  heurte  une  diphthongue, 

Espier  des  vers  si  la  rime  est  brève  ou  longue, 

Ou  bien  si  la  voyelle  à  l'autre  s'unissant. 

Ne  rend  point  à  l'oreille  un  vers  trop  languissant  ; 

Et  laissent  sur  le  verd  le  noble  de  l'ouvrage  ; 

Nul  esguillon  divin  n'eslève  leur  courage  ; 

Ils  rampent  bassement,  foibles  d'inventions, 

Et  n'osent,  peu  hardis,  tenter  les  fictions."^ 

However  severe  these  reproaches  may  seem,  Malherbe 
did  not  entirely  escape  them.     "  Malherbe,"  says  Saint- 

*  See  Pelisson's  report  on  the  examination  of  his  "Stances  au  Rci,"  by 
the  French  Academy,  a  short  time  after  his  death.  "  Histoire  de  l'Aca- 
démie," p.  273,  edit   1653.  ^  Régnier,  Satire  ix. 


THK   TIME  OF  CORNEILLK.  59 

Evremond,  "  has  always  been  considered  the  most  excel- 
lent of  our  poets,  but  more  for  well  turned  expressions 
than  for  invention  and  thought.'"     Boileau  recommended 
that  "  his  purity  and  the  clearness  of  his  happy  turn  " 
should  alone  be  imitated.     Balzac  speaks  of  him,  after 
his  death,  as  "  an  old  court  pedagogue,  who  was  former- 
ly called  the  tyrant  of  words  and  syllables,  who  made  tho 
greatest  difference  between  pas  and  point,  and  treated 
the  affair  of  gerunds  and  participles,  as  if  it  were  a  con- 
test between  two  neighboring  nations,  quarrelling  about 
their  frontiers.  .......     Death  surprised  him,"  he  adds, 

"while  he  was  rounding  a  period,  and  his  climacterical 
year  arrived  when  he  was  deliberating  whether  erreur 
and  doute  were  masculine  or  feminine.  "With  what  at- 
tention did  he  expect  to  be  listened  to,  when  he  was 
for  ever  dogmatising  about  the  virtue  and  use  of  par- 
ticles ?"' 

In  order  to  form  a  judgment  regarding  the  matters 
about  which  the  cleverest  men  then  debated,  we  need 
only  notice  the  gravity  with  which  Pelisson  relates  Mal- 
herbe's  dispute  about  "  licentious"  sonnets,  with  his 
pupils  Racan,  Colomby,  and  Maynard,  "  the  last  of 
whom  alone,"  says  Racan,  "  continued  to  write  them 
until  his  death," — defending  them,  says  Pelisson,  wher- 
ever he  went,  and  "declaiming  against  the  tyranny  of 
those  who  opposed  them."^  We  are  at  first  tempted  to 
follow  their  example,  and  to  feel  indignant  at  Maynard's 
licentious  old  age  ;  but  on  enquiry,  we  find  that  "licen- 
tious" sonnets  were  those,  the  two  quatrains  of  which 
were  not  written  in  the  same  rhyme. 

The  sonnet,  traces   and  specimens  of  which  may  bo 

'  Saint  Evremond,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  vi.  p.  17. 

*  Balzac,  "  Socrate  Chresticn,  Discours  10." 

*  Pelisson,  "  Histoire  tie  rAcademie,"  p.  446 


60  POETRY  m  FRANCE  BEFORE 

found  in  the  more  ancient  French  poets,"  among  others 
in  Marot,  had  been  brought  into  fashion  in  France  by 
Joachim  Du  Bellay,  who  had  spent  some  time  at  Rome  ; 
and  the  taste  of  Catherine  de  Medici  for  this  product  of 
her  native  knd,  had  aided  in  giving  it  vogue.  The  value 
which  was  then  set  on  the  sonnet,  and  the  pains  taken  to 
render  it  perfect,  explain  the  importance  attached  to  it 
by  Boileau,  whose  opinion  may  appear  singular  to  us  at 
the  present  day  : 

"  Un  sonnet  sans  défaut  vaut  seul  un  long  poème." 

On  the  other  hand,  the  number  of  "  two  or  three  son- 
nets out  of  a  thousand,"  which  Boileau  approves  in  the 
works  of  Gombaud,  Maynard,  and  Malleville,  all  three 
celebrated  poets  in  their  day,  shows  us  in  what  fruitless 
labor  might  be  wasted  the  energies  of  men  who  had  con- 
secrated their  lives  to  poetry. 

Other  small  poetical  compositions,  such  as  rondeaux, 
ballads,  and  the  like,  which  Ronsard  and  his  contempo- 
raries had  desired  to  banish  as  not  being  sufficiently 
antique,  regained  favor  when  our  literature  became  more 
truly  French  ;  epigrams  and  songs  also  kept  their  place  ; 
and  the  care  bestowed  upon  these  little  works,  together 
with  the  imitation  of  the  Italian  poets,  employed  the 
whole  powers  of  the  mind  in  seeking  after  delicate  and 
ingenious  thoughts,  fit  to  be  inclosed  within  so  narrow  a 
compass.  Such  modes  of  expression  were  suited  only  to 
poets  whose  exclusive  occupation  was  to  please  a  Court 
not  yet  far  advanced  in  literary  taste,  and  which  they 
were  obliged  unceasingly  to  amuse,  cither  by  the  creation 

'  Sonnet  is  an  old  French  word  signifying  song.  Thibault  de  Cham- 
pagne calls  his  songs  so7incts  : 

"  S'en  oz-jo  faire  encore  maint  gent  party, 
Et  maint  sonnet,  et  mainte  recordie." 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  61 

of  new  objects  of  interest,  or  by  the  production  of  works 
that  did  not  require  either  long-continued  attention,  or  a 
sensitive  imagination  well  versed  in  poetical  ideas.  The 
finest  works  of  poetry  would  not,  perhaps,  have  contrib- 
uted to  diffuse  a  taste  for  letters  so  much  as  this  piece- 
meal literature — this  small  change  of  wit  and  learning, 
adapted  to  the  commerce  of  the  multitude.  It  is  not 
sufficient  to  amuse  the  general  public  ;  their  pleasure  is 
not  complete  unless  they  also  afford  amusement,  and 
play  their  part  in  the  performance  which  they  witness. 
"While  restrained  within  the  sphere  that  I  have  indicated, 
literary  occupations  and  discussions  were  quite  within 
their  reach  ;  their  activity  and  self-love  were  called  into 
play  in  a  degree  which  sufficed  the  movement  of  their 
life.  "We  learn  thereby,  every  day,  the  latest  gallan- 
tries, and  the  prettiest  novelties  in  prose  and  verse  ;  we 
are  told  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  that  such  an  one  has 
composed  the  prettiest  piece  in  the  world  on  such  a  sub- 
ject ;  that  some  one  else  has  written  words  to  such  an 
air  ;  that  this  person  has  made  a  madrigal  upon  an  enjoy- 
ment, and  that  his  frierid  has  composed  some  stanzas 
upon  an  infidelity  ;  that  Mr.  So-and-so  sent  a  sixain  yes- 
terday evening  to  Miss  Such-and-such,  and  that  she  sent 
back  an  answer  at  eight  o'clock  this  morning  ;  that  one" 
celebrated  author  has  just  sketched  a  plan  for  a  new 
book,  that  another  has  got  to  the  third  part  of  his  ro- 
mance, and  that  a  third  is  passing  his  works  through  the 
press.'"  It  was  in  this  way  that  elegant  society  devoted 
itself  to  literature  ;  by  multiplying  the  objects  of  interest 
offered  to  its  tastes,  it  is  possible  to  succeed  in  gaining  its 
attention  :  literature  thus  became  its  great  business,  and 
it  constituted  itself  its  centre  and  its  judge  ;  sometimes 
we  find  it  split  into  two  parties  on  the  respective  merits 

'  Molière,  "  Les  Précieuses  Ridicules,"  Scene  10. 


02  POETRY  IN'  FRANCE  BEFORE 

af  two  sonnets,'  in  the  same  way  as  the  dispute  about 
licentious  sonnets  had  previously  divided  the  poetical 
world.  Indeed,  it  will  not  always  have  such  grave  sub- 
jects of  contention  ;  one  word  will  keep  it  in  suspense,' 
another  will  fill  it  with  admiration  ;  it  will  fall  into 
ecstasies  at  a  quoiqu'on  die^  but  a  homely  expression  will 
excite  its  disgust.  The  pedantry  of  hens  airs  will  unite 
with  that  of  bel  esprit  ;  the  word  bel-esprit  *  itself  will 
become  the  title,  at  first  honorable  but  afterward  ridicu- 
lous, given  to  those  who  combined  the  search  after  wit 
with  the  search  after  manners  ;  and  thus  an  easy  ex- 
planation will  be  afforded  of  the  existence  of  the  Hotel 
de  Rambouillet,  at  which  the  pretensions  of  the  most  re- 

'  That  of  "  Job,"  by  Benserade,  and  that  of  "  Uranie,"  by  Voiture. 
'  A  great  discussion  arose  at  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  on  the  question 
whether  muscadins  or  muscardins  were  correct.  The  case  was  referred  to 
the  Academy,  then  just  established,  and  it  is  inscribed  on  its  registers,  Feb- 
ruary 1st,  1638,  together  with  its  decision  in  favor  of  muscadins.  This  was 
the  opinion  of  Voiture,  who  wrote  the  following  lines  in  ridicule  of  the 
party  who  advocated  muscardins  : 

"  Au  siècle  des  vieux  palardins, 
Soit  courtisans,  soit  citardins. 
Femmes  de  cour  ou  citardines 
Prononçoient  toujours  muscardins, 
Et  balardins  et  balardines, 
Mesmes  l'on  dit  qu'en  ce  tems  là 
Chacun  disoit  :  rose  muscarde  : 
J'en  dirois  bien  plus  sur  cela  ; 
Mais  par  ma  foy  je  suis  malarde, 
Et  mesme  en  ce  moment  voilà 
Que  l'on  m'apporte  une  panarde." 

Pelisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  270. 
'  Molière  "  Femmes  Savantes." 
*  "  Le  bel  esprit  est  un  titre  fort  beau. 

Quand  on  aime  à  courir  de  ruelle  en  ruelle. 
Mais  ce  n'est  point  le  fait  d'une  sage  cervelle 
De  chercher  à  briller  sur  un  terme  nouveau. 


Un  bel  esprit,  si  j'en  sais  bien  juger, 

Est  un  diseur  de  bagatelles 

O  ciel  !  diront  les  précieuses. 
Peut  on  80  déchaîner  contre  le  bel  esprit  1" 

Saint  Evremond,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  x.,  among 
ths  doubtful  poems. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  63 

fined  elegance  mingled  with  those  of  the  most  distin- 
guished talent,  and  whose  authority  extended  over  nearly 
all  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  ' 

There  is  a  great  difierence  between  the  influence  of  the 
Court  acting  upon  literature  as  the  centre  of  good  taste, 
elegance,  and  distinction,  and  the  direct  influence  of  the 
prince  gathering  together  around  his  person  all  that  is 
brilliant  and  elevated,  and  making  himself  the  sole  point 
toward  which  all  converge.  A  striking  exemplification 
of  this  difference  will  be  found  in  a  comparison  of  the 
sway  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  with  that  of  Louis  XIV., 
who  succeeded  to  its  influence.  Henry  IV.  had  paid  but 
little  attention  to  literature  ;  Louis  XIII.  had  a  distaste 
for  it  :  the  skillful  and  compliant  vivacity  of  the  one,  and 
the  melancholy  and  feeble  timidity  of  the  other,  left  their 

'  "  The  celebrated  Arthenice,"  as  Pelisson  calls  her,  "^  whose  cabinet  was 
always  filled  with  the  finest  wits  and  most  honorable  persons  at  Court," 
was  that  same  Marquise  de  Rambouillet  whom  old  Malherbe  had  set  him- 
self to  love,  fiseling  quite  sure  that  he  ran  no  risk  with  a  lady  whose  virtue 
was  already  as  well  known  as  her  wit.  This  disinterested  choice  of  the 
best  poet  that  France  could  then  boast,  may  lead  us  to  consider  the  Mar- 
quise de  Rambouillet,  from  that  time  forth,  as  the  most  distinguished  of 
those  ladies  who  received  the  wits  at  their  houses.  The  most  brilliant 
epoch  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  was  during  the  life  of  Voiture,  who 
died  in  1648.  If  complaints  were  made  at  a  later  period,  of  the  judgments 
of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  and  the  kind  of  wit  that  reigned  there,  it 
was  because,  so  long  a.s  it  corresponded  with  the  spirit  of  the  time,  it 
was  not  thought  ridiculous.  When  Saint-Evremond  assures  us,  in  his 
poems  (vol.  iii.  p.  294),  that,  during  the  time  of  the  good  regency,  viz.,  that 
of  Anne  of  Austria  : 

"  Femmes  savoient  sans  faire  les  savantes  ; 
Molière  en  vain  eût  cherché  dans  la  cour 
Ses  ridicules  affectées," 
he  is  speaking,  in  his  old  age,  of  the  time  of  his  youth  ;  and  this  becomes 
indubitable  when  he  adds  that  then — 

" ses  Fascheux  n'auroient  pas  vu  le  jour, 

Faute  d'objets  à  fournir  les  idées  ;"    . 
and  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  discover, 

"  Dans  le  plaisant  rien  d'outré  ni  de  faux." 
The  time  of  which  Saint-Evremond  thus  speaks  was  the  time  of  Scarron 
and  burlesque.     We  must  not  consult,  contemporary  opinions,  for  the  dates 
of  revolutions  in  taste  ,-;..•'. 


64  POETUY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

courtiers  at  liberty  to  follow  their  own  tastes.  Thus  wo 
find  that,  especially  under  Louis  XIIL,  the  most  dis- 
tinguished poets  were  poets  who,  though  undoubtedly 
anxious  to  get  near  the  king  whenever  they  could,  careful 
to  boast  of  the  distinctions  they  had  received  at  his  hands, 
and  disposed  to  sing  his  praises  whenever  they  thought 
they  could  induce  him  to  listen,  nevertheless  brought 
under  his  notice  works  the  inspiration  of  which  had  not 
come  from  him,  and  which  had  first  sought  the  approval 
of  other  critics  than  himself.  Thus  Maynard,  boasting 
that  the  "  ambitious  marvels"  of  his  verses 

"  N'en  veulent  qu'aux  grands  de  la  cour," 

may  well  add  : 

"  Ils  me  font  des  amis  au  Louvre, 
Et  mon  grand  Roi  veut  qu'on  leur  ouvre 
La  porte  de  son  cabinet." 

But  the  inspiration  of  Maynard  was  derived  neither  from 
"  the  Court  grandees,"  nor  from  "  his  great  King  ;"  he 
only  thinks  of  them  when  he  has  some  favor  to  request, 
or  sorrie  refusal  to  complain  of,  and  if  they  were  honored 
with  his  best  verses,  it  was  because  he  wrote  against 
them  :  witness  this  sonnet  against  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
who  not  only  would  not  give  Maynard  any  thing,  but 
had  harshly  refused  him  : 

"  Par  vos  honneurs  le  monde  est  gouverné  ; 
Vos  volontés  font  le  calme  et  l'orage, 
Et  vous  riez  de  me  voir  confiné 
Loin  de  la  cour,  dans  mon  petit  village. 

Cléomédon,  mes  désirs  sont  contents  ; 
Je  trouve  beau  le  désert  que  j'habite, 
Et  connois  bien  qu'il  faut  céder  au  temps, 
Fuir  l'éclat  et  devenir  herniite. 

Je  suis  heureux  de  vieillir  sans  employ, 
De  me  cncher,  de  vivre  tout  à  moy, 
D'avoir  dompté  la  crainte  et  l'espérance  ; 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  65 

Et  si  le  ciel  qui  nie  traite  si  bien, 
Avoit  pitié  de  vous  et  de  la  France, 
Votre  bonheur  seroit  égal  au  mien." 

And  those  well-known  lines  that  Maynard  wrote  over  the 
door  of  his  study  : 

"  Las  d'espérer  et  de  me  plaindre 
Des  Muses,  des  grands  et  du  sort, 
C'est  ici  que  j'attends  la  mort, 
Sans  la  désirer  ni  la  craindre." 

Under  Louis  XIV.,  it  would  not  have  been  in  good 
taste  to  appear  dissatisfied  with  the  Court,  "  There  are 
times,"  says  Cardinal  de  Retz,  "  in  which  disgrace  is  a 
kind  of  fire  which  purifies  from  all  bad  qualities,  and 
illumines  all  good  ones  ;  and  there  are  also  times  in 
which  it  does  not  become  an  honest  man  to  be  dis- 
graced.'" Louis  XIV.,  by  the  splendor  with  which  he 
surrounded  himself,  brought  favor  into  fashion  ;  it  was 
fas-hionable  also  to  praise  the  prince,  to  refer  every  thing 
to  him,  to  hold  every  thing  from  him  ;  the  courtiers 
aspired  to  no  higher  title  than  that  of  servants  of  their 
master;  and,  by  his  patronage  of  literature,  Louis  en- 
rolled it  among  his  courtiers  :  from  his  direct  protection, 
it  desired  to  hold  the  rank  which  it  sought  to  occupy 
in  the  world  ;  to  please  him  was  the  object  of  all  its 
efforts  ;  and  the  taste  of  the  prince  was  imposed  on  soci- 
ety, just  as,  thirty  years  before,  the  taste  of  society  had 
been  tacitly  adopted  by  the  prince.  ... 

It  is  not  difficult  to  discern  which  of  these  two  in- 
fluences is  most  favorable  to  the  progress  of  literature  and 
the  development  of  poetry.  The  protection  of  a  King  is 
less  enthralling  than  the  familiarity  of  nobles  :  his  laws 
may  be  more  severe,  but  his  constraint  is  less  habitual  ; 
and  poetry  has  perhaps  less  need  of  liberty  than  of 
^  Cardinal  de  Retz,  "Mémoires,"  vol.  i.  p.  66,  edit.  1719. 


66  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

leisure.  Under  Louis  XIV.,  Racine,  Boileau,  and  Molière, 
when  they  had  left  Versailles,  lived  much  more  among 
themselves  ;  and,  being  much  less  dependent  upon  the 
opinions  of  the  fashionable  world,  they  could  liberate  their 
minds  from  the  authority  of  its  caprices,  and  even  console 
themselves  by  thinking  of  the  influence  which  those 
caprices  sometimes  exercised  over  their  success.  Deliver- 
ed from  the  crushing  necessity  of  daily  pleasing  a  multi- 
tude of  petty  amateurs,  they  could  set  apart  sufficient 
time  for  the  composition  of  those  noble  works  which  a 
King,  whose  reign  they  rendered  illustrious  and  whose 
Court  they  adorned,  desired  them  to  complete  for  his  glory 
rather  than  to  hasten  for  his  amusement.  Less  under  the 
necessity  of  seeking  the  approbation  of  the  only  judges 
of  elegance,  they  listened  with  greater  freedom  to  their 
natural  feeling  for  the  true  and  the  beautiful  ;  their 
audience  increased,  and  became  more  enlightened  as  it 
extended  ;  and  if  the  spirit  of  the  times  still  exercised  over 
their  labors  an  influence  that  was  sometimes  injurious, 
fashion  at  least  no  longer  enslaved  their  taste  and  genius. 
But,  as  miay  already  have  been  perceived,  before  this 
brilliant  epoch  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  during  the 
early  years  of  his  rule  and  under  the  government  of 
Louis  XIII.,  literature  was  based  solely  upon  the  mental 
acquirements  of  society.  In  such  an  order  of  things,  in 
the  midst  of  a  still  unenlightened  society,  how  could  taste 
be  fixed  upon  any  stable  and  solid  foundations  ?  Its 
natural  justness  would  be  ceaselessly  warped  by  habits 
and  customs,  as  ceaselessly  altered  by  fashion  and  the 
necessity  of  distinction  from  the  vulgar  herd — that  essen- 
tial characteristic  of  what  is  called  good  society.  In  the 
fashions  of  the  time,  therefore,  we  must  seek  the  source 
of  the  character  of  such  a  literature  ;  and  perhaps  we 
shall  succeed  in  discerning,  in  the  state  of  civilization  at 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  67 

that  period,  the  causes  of  those  fashions  whose  influence 
upon  literature  is  so  evident. 

At  the^nd  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  the  beginning 
of  the  seventeenth,  some  remnants  of  chivalry  were  still 
maintained  in  existence  by  civil  wars,  in  which  the  pleas- 
ures of  society  mingled  with  the  dangers  of  battle,  when 
the  soldier  still  fought  beneath  the  eyes  of  his  lady,  and 
when  beauty  was  frequently  the  prize  of  valor.  It  was 
in  honor  of  the  ladies  that  a  famous  combat  took  place 
under  the  walls  of  Paris,  on  the  2d  of  August,  1589, 
between  L'Isle  Marivault,  a  gentleman  of  the  Royalist 
party,  and  the  Leaguer  Marolles,  known  by  the  name  of 
the  "brave  Marolles."  Marivault,  meeting  Marollea  on 
the  edge  of  the  trench,  asked  him,  "if  there  was  not 
some  one  on  his  side  who  would  break  a  lance  for 
love  of  the  ladies."  Marolles  replied  that  he  thought  it 
his  highest  glory  to  serve  them.  "You  are,  then,  val- 
iant and  in  love,"  said  Marivault  :  "  I  esteem  you  all 
the  more  for  it."  A  meeting  having  been  appointed  for 
the  next  day,  "  several  princesses  and  ladies  dressed  them- 
selves on  that  day  in  green  scarfs,  and  were  placed  in  a 
certain  position  from  which,  as  from  a  scaffold  raised  for 
the  purpose,  they  could  behold  the  space  which  had  been 
marked  out  to  give  them  a  sight  of  the  famous  combat 

that  was  to  be  fought  in  their  honor.     The  fair  S.  S , 

with  whom  the  Leaguer  had  fallen  passionately  in  love, 
was  there  with  Mme.  d'Aumale."  She  called  Marolles 
her  knight  ;  and  when  he  had  killed  Marivault,  "  the 
ladies,"  says  the  Abbé  de  Marolles,  "  crowned  his  victory 
with  their  favors."' 

Amid  customs  like  these,  at  once  coarse  and  frivolous, 
elegance  of  manners  and  language  was  not  always  ilio 
privilege  of  the  most  valiant,  nor  even  of  the  most  noble. 

'  "  Mémoires  Ae  l'Abbé  de  Marolles,"  vol.  i.  p.  384. 


68  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

All  have  heard  of  the  coarseness  of  the  Duke  de  Beaufort, 
the  King  of  the  Markets.  "  M.  de  Beaufort,"  says  Saint- 
Evremond,  "  glories  in  his  ignorance  of  delicate  lan- 
guage      He  attempts  neither  politeness  at  his 

meals,  nor  cleanliness  in  his  dress The  inci- 
dents of  a  law-suit  he  calls  the  accidents  of  life  ;  if  you 
eat  meat  on  fast-days,  he  talks  of  informing  the  politics 
(the  police)  ;  rooms  hung  with  black  he  says  are  /as- 
civious,  and  wanton  eyes  are  lugubrious.  Laval  died, 
according  to  his  report,  of  a  confusion  (contusion)  of  the 
head  ;  and  the  Chevalier  de  Chahot,  through  having  been 
badly  japanned  (trepanned)."*  A  desire  to  please  the 
ladies  was,  nevertheless,  the  habitual  study  even  of  the 
coarsest  and  most  illiterate  ;  the  ladies  held  sway  over 
society,  and  aid-ed  in  dift'using  through  it  a  taste  for  men- 
tal exercises,  the  only  occupations  which  their  weakness 
allows  them  to  share  with  men.  To  the  ladies,  there- 
fore, poetry  addressed  its  chiefest  homage.  But,  with  re- 
gard to  the  fair  sex,  there  is  one  single  homage  in  which 
all  others,  when  analyzed,  are  found  to  be  contained  ; 
and  a  slight  effort  of  mind  will  suffice  to  convince  the 
dullest  that  no  influence  is  equal  to  that  which  subju- 
gates the  heart,  the  desires,  and  the  will.  When  speak- 
ing to  the  ladies,  therefore,  it  was  impossible  not  to  tell 
them  of  love  ;  the  worship  of  love  besieged  them  on  all 
sides  ;  the  word  love  resounded  incessantly  in  their  ears  ; 
and  it  was  thought  impossible  to  represent  any  great 
action  which  love  had  not  inspired,  or  any  extravagant 
deed  at  which  love  could  be  alarmed.  Brutus  and  Ho- 
ratius  Codes  talked  of  love,  in  the  romances  of  Mile,  de 
Scudéry  ;  through  love,  Cyrus  became  the  conqueror  of 
Asia  ;  and  Mandane  was  so  utterly  unable  to  avoid  inspir- 

'  Saint-Evrcmond,  "Œuvres,  Apologie  du  Duc  de  Beaufort,"  vol.  vii.  pp. 
5-11.     See  also  "  Segraisiana,"  p    11. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  69 

ing  love  that,  in  the  romance  of  Cyrus,  she  is  carried  off 
no  less  than  four  times  by  four  different  persons  ;  which 
gave  rise  to  this  decree  of  the  Parnasse  Reformé  :  "  We 
declare  that  we  do  not  recognize  as  heroines,  all  those 
women  who  have  been  carried  off  more  than  once.'" 

However,  either  because  a  taste  of  dominion  rendered 
the  ladies  less  sensible  to  other  pleasures,  or  because  the 
agitation  of  society  preserved  them  from  the  empire  of 
the  passions,  this  age,  which  told  them  so  much  about 
love,  was  the  age  in  which  love  appeared  to  exercise  the 
least  sway  over  them  ;  for  those  who  talked  most  about 
it,  proved  themselves  least  disposed  to  submit  to  its  pow- 
er. Love  was  the  habitual  theme  of  conversation  at  the 
Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  "  a  true  palace  of  honor,"  accord- 
ing to  Bayle,"  whose  skepticism  finds  no  room  for  doubt 
on  this  point;  and,  in  fact,  from  all  their  witty  and  ten- 
der warbling,  there  did  not  issue  a  single  suspicion  that 
passed  the  bounds  of  theory.  "  There,"  says  Ménage, 
"  there  was  gallantry  alone,  but  no  love.  M.  de  Voiture 
one  day  giving  his  hand  to  Mile,  de  Rambouillet,  after- 
ward Mme.  de  Montausier,  wished  to  take  the  liberty  of 
kissing  her  arm;  but  Mile,  de  Rambouillet  manifested 
her  displeasure  at  his  boldness  in  so  serious  a  manner, 
that  she  took  from  him  all  desire  of  again  venturing  on 
the  same  liberty."^ 

Next  to  the  ladies  of  that  lofty  rigidity  which  Mme.  de 
Montausier  displayed  perhaps  with  unusual  ostentation, 
came  those  more  tender  blue-stockings,  whose  hearts 
gave  admission  to  love,  but  on  conditions  which  imparted 
to  it  either  the  vagueness  of  objectless  desire,  or  the  re- 
finement of  desireless  feeling.     "  These  false  pretenders 

'  "  Pâmasse  Réformé,"  article  xix.  p.  157. 

*  Bayle's  "  Dictionary,"  article  Malherbe,  note  B. 

'  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  ii.  p.  8.  ■    •  '     -• 


70  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

to  delicacy,"  says  Saint-Evremond,  "have  robbed  love  of 
its  most  natural  features  ;  thinking  to  give  it  something 
more  precious  in  exchange,  they  have  transferred  the 
seat  of  passion  from  the  heart  into  the  mind,  and  changed 
impulses  into  ideas.  This  great  purification  has  its  ori- 
gin in  an  honest  abhorrence  of  sensuality  ;  but  they  are 
not  less  removed  from  the  true  nature  of  love  than  the 
most  voluptuous  ;  for  love  has  as  little  to  do  with  specu- 
lations of  the  understanding  as  with  brutality  of  the 
appetite.'" 

Ninon  used  to  call  blue-stockings  "  the  Jansenists  of 
love  ;"  they  were,  at  least,  its  theologians. 

We  must,  however,  beware  how  we  believe  that  all 
the  women  were  blue-stockings,  and  that,  as  Corneille 
says  in  the  "  Menteur,"  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  find 
in  Paris, 

"De  ces  femmes  de  bien  qui  se  gouvernent  mal, 
Et  de  qui  la  vertu,  quand  on  leur  fait  service, 
N'est  pas  incompatible  avec  un  peu  de  vice."' 

In  the  anecdotes,  and  even  in  the  history  of  this  time,  we 
often  meet  with  evidences  of  a  love  less  refined  than  that 
inspired  by  the  blue-stockings  ;  and  the  collections  of 
poems  prove  that  the  poets  had  not  entirely  forgotten  it. 
But  this  kind  of  love  belongs  to  all  ages  ;  the  other  is 
one  of  the  particular  characteristics  of  the  -epoch  in 
which  Corneille  was  educated  ;  and  whether  it  was  then 
more  or  less  really  adopted  in  the  ordinary  concerns  of 
life,  it  became  the  fashionable  mode  of  speaking  in  good 
society.  The  poets  were  incessantly  obliged  to  labor  in 
seeking  after  fires,  ardors,  and  languors  which  they 
took  good  care  not  to  feel  ;  and,  condemned  to  exagger- 
ate the  language  of  love  without  expressing  any  of  its 

'  Saint-Evremond,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  ii.  pp.  86,  87 
'  Corneille,  "  Le  Menteur,"  act  i.  scene  1. 


THE   TIME   OF   CORNEILLE.  71 

real  sentiments,  the  amorous  poetry  of  this  period  was 
placed  under  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  saying  nothing 
that  was  true,  and  of  uttering  nothing  that  was  actually 
felt.  Thus  Maynard,  when  expressing  with  considerable 
freedom,  in  one  of  his  odes,  his  dislike  of  skirts, 

"  Où  brille  l'orgueil  des  clinquans," 

declares  his  intention  to  renounce  all  those  learned  and 
lofty  loves  for  which — 

"  II  faut  qu'une  amoureuse  dupe 
Se  travaille  quatre  ou  cinq  ans," 

and  to  go  to  the  Louvre  to  seek — 

"De  la  grâce  et  des  compliments."' 

To  the  affectation  of  feigned  sentiment  there  was, 
moreover,  added  that  of  borrowed  wit  ;  imitation  of  the 
Italian  manner  had  been  followed  by  that  of  Spanish 
taste  ;  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  Italian  Marinism, 
which  had  been  eagerly  adopted  in  Spain,  had  been  trans- 
ported thence  into  France,  overloaded  with  Spanish  exag- 
geration. G-ongora,  a  Spanish  poet  who  flourished  at  the 
end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  was  the  head  of  that  school 
which  is  called  after  his  name  ;  and  Grongora  is  one  of 
the  poets  whom  Chapelain,  the  great  critic  of  the  early 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  recommends  to  careful 
study,  as  one  of  the  good  authors  in  Spanish  literature, 
with  whose  works  he  was  well  acquai'nted.'^  One  disciple 
of  this  school  tells  us  that  the  eyes  of  his  mistress  are 
"  as  large  as  his  grief  and  as  black  as  his  destiny  ;'"  an- 

'  "Recueil  des  plus  belles  Pièces  des  Poètes  Français,"  vol.  iii.  p.  13. 

*  See  the  "  Mélanges  de  Littérature  tirés  des  Lettres  manuscrites  de 
Chapelain,"  p.  161. 

'  "  Grandes  como  mi  dolor, 

Negros  como  mi  ventura." 
This  occurs  in  a  poem  by  the  Portuguese  Manuel  de  Faria  y  Souza.     See 
Bouterwck's  "  History  of  Spanish  Literature,"  p.  304. 


72  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

other  informs  us  that  an  adventure  which  happened  to 
a  young  girl,  occurred  "  one  evening,  which  was  a  morn- 
ing, since  Aurora  smiled,  and  showed  white  pearls  in  the 
midst  of  glowing  carmine."  '  It  will  at  once  be  perceived 
that  Aurora  was  the  name  of  the  young  lady  ;  and  it  is 
still  easier  to  discover  the  origin  of  those  comparisons  with 
Aurora,  the  Sun,  the  Moon,  and  the  Stars,  of  which 
Saint-Evremond  found  it  possible  to  become  weary,  and 
which  he  considered  the  groundwork  of  our  poetry** — 
hyperbolic  expressions  which  the  French  poets  rendered 
still  more  ridiculous,  by  copying  them  from  the  Spaniards 
without  at  the  same  time  borrowing  that  Oriental  imag- 
ination, which,  in  Spain,  clothed  these  phrases  with  a 
sort  of  reality.  They  became  the  familiar  style  of  love 
poetry.     When  Voiture  wrote 

"  Je  croirois  d'avoir  trop  d'amour, 
Et  de  vous  estre  trop  fidelle, 
Si  vous  n'estiez  qu'un  peu  plus  belle 
Que  l'astre  qui  donne  le  jour," 

he  probably  merely  intended  to  express,  in  a  tone  of 
pleasantry,  one  of  those  exaggerations  from  which  he 
was  no  more  free  than  others  ;  but  it  is  very  certain,  that 
he  did  not  mean  to  cast  ridicule  upon  the  prevailing  fash- 
ion. Polite  society  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  the 
serious  discussion  of  the  merits  of  two  sonnets  by  Voiture 
and  Malleville,  on  La  belle  Matineuse  ;  and  if  a  rather 
more  graceful  turn  of  expression,  and  greater  poetry  in 
the  details,  caused  the  prize  to  be  awarded  to  Malleville's 
production,  no  one,  during  the  whole  of  the  discussion, 
thought  of  being  offended  by  the  fundamental  idea  of 
both  pieces,  which  consisted  in  representing  the  sun,  with 

'  These  are  the  terms  employed  by  Felix  do  Arteaga,  a  distinguished 
Gongorist,  in  one  of  his  songs  to  the  fair  Amaryllis.     Boutcrwek,  p.  312. 
'  Saint-Evremond,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  p.  235. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  73 

all  his  magnificence,  cast  into  the  shade  by  the  superior 
brilliancy  of  a  woman.' 

Although  such  examples  as  this  give  us  an  idea  of  the 
taste  of  the  society  which  held  them  in  admiration,  they 
do  not  prove  that  its  taste  was  confined  to  this  kind  of 
literature  only  ;  every  thing  was  sought  after,  every  thing 
received  into  the  gay  and  idle  parties  of  the  time,  which, 
though  fond  of  amusement,  were  no  less  fond  of  wit,  and 
rejoiced  to  extend  in  any  direction  the  range  of  movement 

'  We  quote  these  two  sonnets.     Voiture's  is  as  follows  ; 

Des  portes  du  matin  l'amante  de  Céphalc, 
Les  roses  épandoit  par  le  milieu  des  airs, 
Et  jetoit  dans  les  cieux  nouvellement  ouverts, 
Ces  traits  d'or  et  d'azur  qu'en  naissant  elle  étale. 

Quand  la  nymphe  divine,  à  mon  repos  fatale, 
Apparut  et  brilla  de  tant  de  feux  divers 
Qu'il  sembloit  qu'elle  seule  esclairoit  l'univers, 
Et  remplissoit  de  feu  la  rive  orientale. 

Le  soleil,  se  hastant  pour  la  gloire  des  cieux,  .  , 

Vint  opposer  sa  flamme  à  l'éclat  de  ses  yeux, 
Et  prit  tous  les  rayons  dont  l'Olympe  se  dore  ; 

L'onde,  la  terre  et  l'air  s'allumoient  à  l'entour. 
Mais  auprès  de  Philis  on  le  prit  pour  l'Aurore, 
Et  l'on  crut  que  Philis  était  l'astre  du  jour." 

Malleville's  sonnet  runs  thus  : 

''  Le  silence  régnoit  sur  la  terre  et  sur  l'onde  ; 
L'air  devonoit  serein  et  l'Olympe  vermeil, 
Et  l'amoureux  Zéphir,  affranchi  du  sommeil, 
Ressuscitoit  les  fleurs  d'une  haleine  féconde. 

L'Aurore  déployoit  l'or  de  sa  tresse  blonde. 
Et  semoit  de  rubis  le  chemin  du  soleil  ; 
Enfin  ce  Dieu  venoit  au  plus  grand  appareil 
Qu'il  soit  jamais  venu  pour  éclairer  le  monde  ; 

Quand  la  jeune  Philis,  au  visage  riant. 
Sortant  de  son  palais  plus  clair  que  l'Orient, 
Fit  voir  une  lumière  et  plus  vive  et  plus  belle. 

Sacré  flambe  du  jour  !  n'en  soyez  pas  jaloux  , 

Vous  parûtes  alors  aussi  peu  devant  elle 

Que  les  feux  de  la  nuit  avoient  fait  devant  vous." 

1) 


74  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

which  varied  their  existence.  "  M.  de  Nogent,"  says 
Ménage,  "  was  an  admirable  man  to  revive  languishing 
conversations.  One  day,  heing  in  the  circle  of  the  Queen, 
Anne  of  Austria,  and  finding  that  the  conversation  had 
ceased,  and  that  for  some  time  neither  the  Queen,  nor  the 
ladies  (among  whom  was  Madame  de  G-uémenée),  had 
spoken  a  word  :  '  Is  it  not,  madam,'  said  he,  breaking 
the  silence  and  addressing  the  Q,ueen,  '  a  curious  whim 
of  Nature's,  that  Madame  de  Gruémenée  and  myself  were 
born  on  the  same  day,  and  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
of  each  other,  and  yet  that  she  should  be  so  fair  and  I  so 
dark  V  "  '  If  this  remark  really  revived  the  conversation, 
and  if  it  was  for  such  speeches  as  this  that  M.  de  Nogent 
deserved  to  be  quoted  by  Ménage  as  "  an  admirable  man" 
for  this  kind  of  thing,  we  may  form  a  tolerably  correct 
notion  of  the  subjects  of  conversation  at  this  period,  and 
can  appreciate  the  eagerness  with  which  any  new  topic 
would  be  welcomed.  A  witty  rejoinder,  a  futile  dis- 
cussion, the  slightest  adventure,  the  death  of  a  dog  or 
cat — all  possible  subjects  were  immediately  celebrated 
in  verses  not  remarkable  for  poetic  feeling  and  expres- 
sion, but  animated  by  considerable  facility,  and  by  a 
freedom  of  tone  which  gave  admission  to  all  means  of 
amusement.  The  works  of  Voiture,  Sarrasin,  and  Ben- 
scrade  abound  in  pieces  of  this  kind,  which  teach  us  how 
much  wit  may  be  infused  into  the  very  worst  verses,  and 
how  little  is  required  to  obtain  success,  in  fashionable 
society,  in  that  kind  of  pleasures  which  their  caprice  has 
chosen. 

If  any  thing  should  excite  our  surprise,  it  would  be 
that  the  pleasantries  of  this  small  worldly  literature  were 
not  worse,  at  a  time  when,  besides  that  hyperbolic  mag- 
nificence which  did  not  consider  the  sun  sufficiently  brill- 

'  "  Mcnagiana,"  vol.  i.  p    MO. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  75 

iant  to  be  compared  to  the  eyes  of  Phillis,  there  grew 
and  flourished,  both  in  court  and  city,  an  extravagant 
taste  for  burlesque,  the  sublimity  of  which  consisted  in 
travestying  Didon  into  dondon,^  and  Venus  into  a  ^ris- 
ctte.^  This  taste,  though  apparently  so  opposed  to  the 
excessive  delicacy  which  seemed  then  to  be  in  vogue,  is, 
nevertheless,  not  at  all  surprising.  The  courtiers  of  this 
period,  borrowing  all  their  elegance  and  refinement  of 
mind  from  men  of  letters,  resembled,  for  the  most  part, 
those  parvenus,  whose  tone  and  manners,  notwithstanding 
the  magnificence  of  their  outward  appearance,  clearly 
reveal  their  origin  and  habits.  Although  Mile,  de  Ram- 
bouillet, perhaps  from  haughtiness  as  much  as  virtue, 
took  offense  at  the  most  innocent  freedoms,  yet,  in  the 
general  manners  of  society,  a  modesty  much  less  repulsive 
and  limiting  its  cares  to  the  more  essential  parts  of  vir- 
tue, nevertheless  retained  a  facility  which  at  the  present 
day  would  be  thought  dangerous,  or,  at  the  very  least, 
strange.  When,  in  Mairet's  "  Sylvie,"  Sylvia's  lover, 
complaining  of  her  rigid  virtue,  says  : 

"  Souffre  sans  murmurer  que  ma  bouche  idolâtre 
Imprime  ses  baisers  dessus  ton  sein  d'albâtre," 

Slyvia  is  no  more  scandalized  at  the  proposition  than 
were  the  spectators  who  witnessed  these  transports.  The 
lover  then  exclaims  : 

"  O  transports  !   ô  plaisirs  du  crime  séparés  !" 

and  Sylvia  is  really  rather  afraid  that  she  will  be  seen, 
but  not  more  than  she  fears  being  heard  talking  of  love.* 
This  easiness  of  behavior  necessarily  exercised  great  in- 
fluence over  the  unconstraint  of  conversation  :    women 

•  A  stout,  fresh-colored  girl.  ^  See  the  "  Virgile  travesti." 

^  "  Sylvie,"  a  pastoral  melodrama,  Act  i.  scene  5. 


76  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

who  were  so  indulgent  as  to  permit  much,  could  not  fail 
to  become  accustomed  to  hear  much;  and  Armande's 
proposition  to  cut  off 

" ces  syllabes  infâmes 

Dont  on  vient  faire  insulte  à  la  pudeur  des  femmes,"  ^ 

proves  that  they  thoroughly  understood  allusions  of  this 
kind,  and  that  they  had  not  yet  habituated  the  men  to  show 
them  such  respect  as  not  to  indulge  in  such  allusions. 

Sentiments,  then,  might  be  pure  without  preventing 
language  from  being  free,  and  ideas  were  still  more  so. 
Mile,  de  Rambouillet,  who  would  not  allow  Voiture  to 
kiss  her  hand,  certainly  read  his  verses,  and  pardoned 
the  poet  for  implying  a  great  deal,  because  he  was  the 
first  who  ceased  to  speak  openly,  although  that  also 
sometimes  happened  to  him."  This  freedom,  in  the  case 
of  those  women  who  permitted  it,  might  have  been  asso- 
ciated with  a  certain  innocence  of  imagination  which,  in 
a  pleasantry,  saw  nothing  more  than  a  pleasantry  and 
the  gayety  which  it  occasioned  ;  but  an  innocence  capable 
of  finding  food  for  gayety  in  such  objects,  was  necessarily 
connected  with  a  remnant  of  coarseness  which  had  not 
entirely  disappeared  before  that  delicacy  whose  enjoy- 
ments were  beginning  to  be  sought  after.  The  most 
chaste  woman  of  the  lower  orders  may  very  innocently 
bring  a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  a  lady  of  fashion,  less 
chaste  perhaps,  but  more  delicate. 


'  Molière,  "  Femmes  savantes." 

'  See  Voiture'' s  verses  upon  the  adventure  of  a  lady  who  fell  from  her  ' 
carriage,  on  her  way  to  the  country.  ("  Œuvres  de  Voiture,"  vol.  ii.  p.  32. 
edit.  1665.)  Both  substance  and  expression  were  much  worse  before  his 
time.  Saint-Evremond,  however,  speaking  of  the  coarse  freedom  of  the  older 
writers,  and  especially  of  Desportcs,  adds  :  "  But  since  Voiture,  who  had 
a  refmed  mind,  an<l  lived  in  the  bp.«t  society,  avoided  this  vulgar  style  with 
considerable  exactitude,  even  the  stage  has  not  allowed  its  authors  to  write 
with  too  much  freedom."  ("  (lÀivres  de  Saint-Evremond,"  vol.  ix.  p.  58.) 
Thus,  Molièrc's  style  wa.i  not  too  free  for  the  usages  of  his  time. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  77 

We  must  not,  moreover,  judge  of  the  court  and  city 
as  a  whçle,  at  this  period,  by  a  small  number  of  persons 
who  were  anxious  to  distinguish  themselves  from  the  rest, 
and  in  whom  the  fashion  of  wit  had  found,  either  dispo-' 
sitions  suited  to  insure  its  prevalence,  or  authority  capa- 
ble of  commanding  respect.  General  ignorance  contend- 
ed against  the  aspirations  after  wit  and  learning,  which 
were  struggling  to  gain  ground.  "  Latin  !"  exclaimed 
the  Commander  de  Jars,  "  Latin  at  my  time  !  A  gentle- 
man would  have  been  dishonored  by  learning  it.'"  "I 
have  loved  war  above  all  things,"  said  the  Maréchal  de 
Hocquincourt  to  Père  Canaye  :  "  next  to  war  I  loved 
Mme.  de  Montbazon,  and,  such  as  you  see  me,  philosophy 
next  to  Mme.  de  Montbazon."''  But,  taking  a  dislike  to 
philosophy,  because  he  perceived  that  it  led  him  to  be- 
lieve nothing,  the  marshal  gave  it  up.  "  Since  then,"  he 
said,  "  I  would  willingly  suffer  crucifixion  for  the  sake 
of  religion  ;  not  that  I  see  any  more  reason  in  it  than  I 
saw  before;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  it  less  reasonable 
than  ever;  but  I  can  only  tell  you  this,  I  would  suffer 
crucifixion  without  knowing  why."'  "  G-assendi,"  says 
Segrais,  "studied  astronomy  with  a  view  to  astrology  ;" 
and  when,  having  perceived  the  absurdity  of  the  latter 
study,  he  attempted  to  disabuse  the  minds  of  other  men 
regarding  it,  he  repented  of  his  endeavor,  "  because,"  he 
said,  "  whereas  most  people  had  previously  studied  as- 
tronomy as  a  preparation  for  becoming  astrologers,  many 
now  ceased  to  study  it  at  all  since  he  had  decried  astrolo- 
gy." *  The  whole  Court  allowed  itself  to  be  amused,  or 
deceived,  by  the  tricks  of  an  Abbé  Brigalier,  half  a  be- 
liever in  what  he  taught,  and  half  a  quack,  who  had 
spent  forty  thousand  crowns  in  an  unsuccessful  attempt 

^  Saint-Evremond.  "Œuvres,"  vol.  ii.  p.  81.  ^  Ibid.  vol.  iii.  p.  56. 

'  Ibid.  vol.  iii.  p.  60.  *  "  Segraisiana,"  vol.  ii.  p.  42, 


78  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

to  become  a  magician,  and  who  made  up  for  his  lack  of 
science  by  his  address.  One  of  the  court  ladies  g^ve  him 
a  piece  of  red  stuff,  that  he  might  change  its  color, 
which  did  not  please  her  ;  he  returned  to  her  a  piece 
of  green  stuff;  and  the  strong-minded  men  alone,  those 
philosophers  for  whom  the  Maréchal  d'Hocquincourt  had 
acquired  such  a  distaste,  ventured  to  doubt  that  this 
change  was  an  effect  of  Abbé  Brigalier's  art.  A  fowl 
which  he  caused  to  appear  miraculously  before  the  eyes 
of  Monsieur,  the  brother  of  Louis  XIIL,  by  dropping  it 
from  his  cassock,  in  which  it  had  lain  concealed,  alarmed 
the  prince  so  much  that  he  drew  his  sword,  which  he 
returned  quietly  to  it's  sheath  on  being  told  by  the  Abbé, 
with  great  gravity  :  "Do  you  know,  my  lord,  that  this 
is  not  a  trick  ?"  The  fowl  was  increased  in  size  by  the 
imagination,  and  became,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Court, 
a  "  turkey-cock,"  that  is,  a  new  proof  of  the  supernat- 
ural power  wielded  by  the  Abbé  ;  and  the  Queen  very 
seriously  told  Mademoiselle,  whose  chaplain  he  was  : 
"  My  dear  cousin,  you  ought  not  to  keep  a  chaplain  who 
changes  fowls  into  turkey-cocks."  ' 

In  that  simplicity  of  ignorance,  and  that  infancy  of 
reason  which  is  not  incompatible  with  activity  of  mind, 
and  only  indicates  want  of  reflection,  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  persons  to  whom  so  many  things  were  new 
and  extraordinary,  allowed  themselves  to  be  deceived 
and  amused  in  the  same  way  as  the  common  people. 
The  taste  of  the  Court,  in  its  diversions,  did  not  rise 
above  those  which  are  now  to  be  seen  in  the  public 
street — if,  at  least,  wo  may  judge  of  them  from  the  de- 
scription given  us  by  the  Abbé  de  MaroUes  of  the  ballets 
danced  by  the  Court  of  Louis  XIIL,  and  invented  by 
the  Duke  de  Nemours,  "  who  had  rare  ideas,"  says  the 

'  Segraisiana."  vol.  i.  p.  51. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  79 

Abbé,  "  in  this  as  in  all  other  matters."  *  One  of  these 
ballets,  danced  in  1626,  represented  the  marriage  of  the 
Doioager  of  Bilbahaut  to  the  Darling  of  Sillytowii, 
"for  even  the  names,  in  these  matters,"  says  Marolles, 
"  should  have  some  pleasantry  in  them."^  The  fertile 
imagination  of  the  Duke  de  Nemours  "furnished  also  the 
ballets  of  the  Fairies  of  the  Forest  of  Saint-Germain  of 
the  Clips  and  Balls,  and  of  the  Double  Women,''''  who 
were  masked,  on  one  side,  like  modest  young  girls,-  and 
on  the  other,  like  dissolute  old  women,  and  who  acted, 
by  turns,  in  conformity  to  the  character  of  these  two  per- 
sonages ;  until,  at  last,  all  having  joined  hands  to  danco 
in  a  circle,  it  was  impossible  to  say  which  was  the  front 
or  the  back,  so  agreeably  did  this  pretty  invention  charm 
the  imagination."'  The  same  Abbé  de  Marolles  takes 
the  Duke  de  Nemours  severely  to  task  for  having  intro- 
duced into  one  of  his  ballets  a  personage  mounted  upon  a 
real  horse,  "  instead  of  introducing  him  upon  a  machine 
representing  a  horse,  which  is  much  more  graceful."' 
Thus,  the  essence  of  the  royal  ballets,  according  to  the 
Abbé  de  Marolles,  was  the  comic  or  the  pleasant,  as  well 
as  the  magnificent  and  the  marvellous  ;^  but  this  comic- 
ality was  broad  farce  :  we  can  perceive  in  it  no  trace  of 
true  comedy,  which  is  the  greatest  enemy  of  burlesque; 
and  the  choice  of  the  actors  in  these  ballets  sufficiently 
indicates  how  far  distant  society  then  was  from  that  sen- 
timent of  propriety  which  preserves  dignity  even  in 
amusements. 

It  Avas  then,  to  the  most  fantastic  employment  of  the 
mind  that  the  right  was  reserved  of  exciting  gayety 
among  people  who  were  as  yet  unaware  of  its  true  use. 
The  French  poets  had  long  ago  set  the  example  of  that 

'  "Mémoires  de  Michel  de  Marolles,"  vol.  i.  p.  114.  ^  Ibid. 

3  Ibid.  p.  134.  *  Ibid.  vol.  ui.  p.  133.  «  Ibid.  p.  119. 


80  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE    . 

ingenious  and  puerile  abuse  of  words,  which,  by  playing 
with  the  reason  more  than  with  language,  strives  to  im- 
part to  them,  by  their  material  arrangement,  a  meaning 
different  to  that  which  they  naturally  present.  We  find 
more  than  one  example  of  this  in  Marot  ;  and  Pasquier 
himself,  with  a  complacency  which  is  ill-concealed  be- 
neath a  slight  affectation  of  shame,  relates  a  multitude 
of  these  jeux  de  mots.  I  shall  only  quote  one  of  them, 
from  the  "  Q,uantités"  of  Mathurin  Cordier  : 

"  Hiades  curœ  quœ  mala  corde  serunt  ! 
Il  y  a  des  curés  qui  mal  accordés  seront!" 

It  was  at  the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, at  the  time  when  the  fashion  of  burlesque  univer- 
sally prevailed,  that  pointes  became  popular  in  polite 
society.  About  the  year  1632  or  1633,  Ménage  quar- 
relled with  his  father  for  having  devolved  upon  him  his 
office  of  King's  Advocate,  which  he  had  resigned  in  favor 
of  his  son,  but  which  Ménage  did  not  wish  to  undertake. 
The  bishop  of  Angers  wrote  to  inquire  what  they  had 
quarreled  about  ;  Ménage  replied  that  it  arose  from  his 
having  "  returned  to  his  father  a  bad  office," — de  ce 
qu'il  avait  rendu  à  son  père  un  mauvais  office.^  "  That 
was  thought  good  at  that  period,"  said  he  afterward, 
when  quoting  I  he  joke  ;  "  for  it  was  then  the  age  of 
pointes.^'*  Indeed  they  were  so  abundant  at  that  time 
that  Boileau  thought  in  necessary  to  take  notice  of  them 
as  marking  one  of  the  epochs  in  literature.  Nothing, 
however  serious,  was  entirely  exempt  from  their  insults  ; 
they  held  nothing  sacred  : 

"  Et  le  docteur  en  chaire  en  orna  l'Evangile."' 


'  See  the  "  Mémoires  pour  servir  à  la  vie  de  M.  Ménage,"  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  first  volume  of  "  Mcnagiana."  ^  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  ii.  p.  35. 

'  Little  Père  André,  an  Augustine  Monk.  See  Dcspreatix'  note  on  the 
"  Art  Poétique,"  c.  ii.  v.  132. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  81 

This  taste  at  last  died  out,  and  was  banished  from  lit- 
erature : 

"  Toutefois  à  la  cour  les  Turlupins  restèrent," 

to  amuse,  at  least,  those  persons  who  would  have  been 
greatly  embarrassed  by  the  necessity  of  possessing  wit. 

Thus  every  thing,  during  the  age  and  under  the  reign 
of  the  blue-stockings,  attests  and  explains  the  existence 
and  necessity  of  that  coarse  gayety  which  could  be  sat- 
isfied only  by  mental  debauchery,  and  the  temporary 
forgetfulness  of  reason  and  propriety  ;  a  sort  of  intoxica- 
tion very  similar  in  its  effects,  and  sometimes  in  its 
causes,  to  that  intoxication  by  wine,  sung  by  some  of 
the  poets  of  this  period  with  more  spirit  and  originality 
than  one  would  be  led  to  expect.  Brought  up  in  good 
society,  Yoiture  Benserade,  and  Sarrazin  did  not  yield  to 
this  license,  which  was  too  coarse  for  their  taste,  and  too 
poetical  for  their  talent.  Bijt  the  poets  of  the  beginning 
of  this  century,  accustomed  to  live  among  themselves, 
and  probably  glad  to  escape,  whenever  they  could,  from 
the  constraint  of  that  elegant  society  in  which  they  were 
sometimes  obliged  to  appear — since  upon  it  alone  their 
success  began  to  depend — spent  their  best  moments  at 
the  pot-house,  and  abandoned  themselves  in  excess  to 
that  liberty  which  they  were  not  always  able  to  enjoy. 
Though  Faret  has  asseverated  that  he  owed  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  debauchee,  ascribed  to  him  by  Saint-Amant, 
to  the  fact  that  his  name  rhymed  with  cabaret,^  Saint- 
Amant  needed  no  witnesses  to  prove  that  the  thing  was 
as  familiar  to  him  as  the  word  ;  for  he  has  traced  pic- 
tures of  drunkenness  which  possess  all  the  truth  of  a 
painting  from  nature,  and  all  the  spirit  of  a  poet  filled 

'  Pélisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  429. 


82 


rOETRY  IN  FRANCE   BEFORE 


with  hia  subject/  Saint-Amant,  one  of  the  most  vigor- 
ous and  original  writers  of  this  kind,  was,  nevertheless, 
not  the  only  one  ;  and  if  proof  were  wanting  of  the  vogue 
then  obtained  by  Bacchic  poetry,  it  might  be  found  in 
the  works  of  a  strange  poet  of  this  period,  Master  Adam, 
a  carpenter,  of  Ne  vers.  Unless  generally  approved  ex- 
amples had  already  existed,  it  is  no  more  likely  that  a 
carpenter  would  have  been  the  first  to  sing  of  wine  and 
the  pot-house,  than  that  a  shepherd  was  the  first  to  cele- 
brate flocks  and  fields  in  verse.  Master  Adam  heartily 
sang  the  praises  of  his  barrels,  in  imitation  of  the  wits 
of  his  time,  but  imitated  them  only  feebly  in  his  lauda- 
tion of  his  mistress  : 

"  Dont  les  yeux,  en  mourant,  estèrent  à  l'amour 
Deux  trônes  où  sa  gloire  étaloit  tous  ses  charmes." 


"  Qu'on  m'apporte  une  bouteille 
Qui  d'une  liqueur  vermeille 
Soit  teinte  jusqu'à  l'orlet, 
Afin  que  sous  cette  treille 
Ma  soif  la  prenne  au  colet. 

Lacquay,  fringue  bien  ce  verre  ; 
Fay  que  l'éclat  du  tonnerre 
Soit  moins  flamboyant  que  luy 
Ce  sera  le  cimeterre 
Dont  j'esgorgeray  l'ennui 

Voyez  le  sang  qui  desgoutte  ; 
Il  est,  il  est  en  déroute, 
Ce  lâche  et  sobre  démon 


Hurlons  comme  des  Ménades  ; 
Ces  airs  qu'eu  leurs  sérénades 
Les  amoureux  font  ouïr, 
Au  milieu  des  carbonnades, 
Ne  sauroicnt  nour  resjouir. 

Bacchus  aime  le  désordre  ; 
Il  se  plait  à  voir  l'un  mordre 
L'autre  braire  et  griuiasser. 

It  would  be  imj)ossiblc  for  a  man 
the  extravagance  of  debauch.     This 


Et  l'autre  en  fureur  se  tordre 
Sous  la  rage  de  danser. 

Il  veut  qu'ici  de  Panthéc 
La  mort  soit  représentée 
A  la  gloire  du  bouchon. 
Et  qu'au  lieu  de  cet  athée 
On  desmembre  ce  couchon. 

Que  dis-je  !  oh  !  que  j'ai  la  vue 
De  jugement  despourvue  ! 
Parbleu  !  c'est  un  marcassin 
Dont  la  trogne  résolu 
Nous  nargue  dans  ce  bassin. 

A  voir  sa  gueule  fumante. 
Il  m'est  advis  qu'il  se  vante. 
En  grondant  mille  défi^. 
Que  du  sanglier  d'Erymanthc 
Il  descend  de  père  en  fils. 

Il  pourrait  venir  du  diable, 
Avec  sa  mine  eflroyable. 
Si  se  vcrra-t-il  chocqué, 
Et  d'une  ardeur  incroyable. 
Par  nous  défait  et  niocqué." 

to  abandon  himself  more  heartily  to 
piece  is  called  "  La  Crevaille." 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  83 

Burlesque,  like  bacohanalian  poetry,  does  not  originate 
among  the  lower  classes  of  society  ;  the  commonalty  do 
not  live  sufficiently  on  a  level  with  great  objects  to  see 
any  thing  comic  in  their  abasement,  and  are  not  suffici- 
ently well  acquainted  with  them  to  know  how  to  render 
them  ridiculous.  The  gayety  of  the  burlesque  style  re- 
sembles recollections  of  good  society,  taken  to  the  pot- 
house, and  disfigured  by  that  intemperate  joy,  those 
licentious  ideas,  and  that  unconstrained  coarseness,  in 
which  topers  indulge.'     The  delicacy  on  which  the  writers 

^  The  connection  between  burlesque  and  bacchanalian  poetry  is  so  in- 
timate, that  it  is  not  always  easy  to  separate  them  ;  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say  with  any  positiveness  whether  these  stanzas  of  the  enamored  Saint- 
Amant  were  written  by  a  toper  or  a  burlesque  poet  : 

"Parbleu,  j'en  tiens  ;    c'est  tout  de  bon  ; 
Ma  libre  humeur  en  a  dans  l'aUe 
Puisque  je  préfère  au  jambon 
Le  visage  d'une  donzelle. 
Je  suis  pris  dans  le  doux  lien 
De  l'archerot  Italien  ; 
Ce  dieutelet,  fils  de  Cyprine 
Avecques  son  arc  mi-courbé 
A  féru  ma  rude  poitrine 
Et  m'a  fait  venir  ù  jubé. 

Je  me  fais  friser  tous  les  jours  ;  i 

On  me  relève  la  moustache  ; 
Je  n'entrecoupe  mes  discours 
Que  de  rots  d'ambre  et  de  pistache. 
J'ai  fait  banqueroute  au  petun  ; 
L'excès  du  vin  m'est  importun  ; 
Dix  pintes  par  jour  me  suffisent  ; 
Encor  ô  falotte  beanté, 
Dont  les  regards  me  déconfisent, 
Est-ce  pour  boire  à  ta  santé." 

In  order  to  become  still  more  convinced  of  the  resemblance,  it  is  sufficient 
to  read  the  piece  entitled  "  La  Débauche,"  which  commences  thus  : 

"  Nous  perdons  le  temps  à  rimer  ; 
Amis,  il  ne  faut  plus  chommer 
Voici  Bacchus  qui  nous  convie 
A  mener  bien  une  autre  vie — " 

I  dare  not  venture  to  quote  more,  as  its  gayety  is  so  petulant  and  intem- 
perate. See  the  "Recueil  des  plus  belles  Pieces  des  Poètes  Français," 
vol.  iii.  p.  243. 


84  rOETRY  IN  FEANCE  BEFORE 

of  that  period  were  beginning  to  pride  themselves  in- 
creased the  pleasantry  of  the  contrast.  More  homogene- 
ous manners  would  have  furnished  no  food  for  gayety  of 
this  kind.  It  was  over  the  delicate  and  civilized  poetry 
of  Virgil  that  burlesque  triumphed  ;  it  failed  completely 
against  the  simplicity  of  Homer. 

It  was,  then,  at  this  epoch  of  combined  coarseness  and 
refinement,  of  license  and  finical  taste,  that  the  hero  of 
burlesque  appropriately  appeared.  This  hero  was  Scar- 
ron,  whoso  wit  and  readiness  had  rendered  him  familiar 
with  the  study  of  literature  ;  who  had  been  hurried  into 
all  kinds  of  debauchery  by  the  reckless  gayety  of  his 
character,  and  whose  infirmities  threw  him  into  good 
society,  after  having  disabled  him  from  again  frequent- 
ing bad  company.  Bedridden,  but  talkative,  Scarron 
expended  in  pleasantry  that  vein  of  folly  which  had  been 
arrested  in  its  course  by  a  sudden  and  premature  old  age. 
He  infused  into  his  books  that  intemperateness  of  imag- 
ination which  had  formerly  served  to  enliven  licentious 
parties  ;  but,  gifted  with  greater  discernment  and  good 
sense  than  is  generally  thought,  he  was  careful  not  to 
cast  upon  persons  or  things  any  but  that  kind  of  ridicule 
which  might,  up  to  a  certain  point,  fairly  belong  to  them. 
Thus,  iEneas  weeping  like  a  calf  in  the  midst  of  a 
storm,  in  fear  of  being  devoured  by  soles,^  is  only  an  ex- 
aggeration of  that  weakness  which  tradition  attributes  to 
the  character  of  the  pious  son  of  Anchises  ;  and  any  man 
whom  excess  of  gayety  has  rendered  capable,  like  Scar- 
ron, of  stripping  the  sublime  of  those  circumstances 
which  render  it  earnest  and  imposing,  will,  like  him,  see 

in  the  Quos  ego of  Neptune  nothing  but  a  Par 

la  morf and  the  reticence  of  a  well-bred  man, 

stopping  for  fear  of  swearing  too  vulgar  an  oath. 

•  Starron,  "  Virgile  Travesti,"  vol.  i.  p.  28,  edit.  1704.        «  Ibid.  p.  32. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  86 

This  Par  la  mort  was  considered  the  most  admirable 
hit  of  the  burlesque  style  ;  and  the  reputation  of  the 
"  Virgile  Travesti"  was  so  firmly  established  that,  a  few 
years  after  Scarron's  death,  a  writer  ventured  to  repre- 
sent Ovid  as  saying  to  Virgil  :  "  By  his  means  you  pass 
into  the  hands  of  the  fair  sex,  who  delight  to  have  a 
laugh  at  your  expense  ;  and,  comparing  style  with  style, 
his  wanton  and  jocular  graces  are  really  well  worth  your 

grave  and  serious   beauties I   don't  think   that 

even  you  would  maintain  tha^t  your  Quos  ego  is  better 
than  Scarron's  Par  la  mort.''^  Upon  which,  poor  Virgil 
answers  that  he  does  not  complain  that  Scarron's  merit 
eclipses  his  own.' 

But  if  men  of  taste  had  been  the  only  judges  of  bur- 
lesque, even  though  taking  pleasure  in  it,  they  would 
have  assigned  to  it  its  true  place  ;  and  the  greatest  suc- 
cess of  a  folly  of  this  kind  would  have  resembled  that 
obtained  by  one  of  those  ephemeral  farces,  in  the  per- 
formance of  which  those  who  move  in  good  society,  and 
even  men  of  talent,  occasionally  seek  an  amusement 
which  they  would  not  endure  in  any  other  quarter.  In- 
stead of  this,  burlesque  was  adopted  at  this  period  with 
all  the  fervor  of  a  new  fashion  ;  and  a  fashion,  as  long  as 
it  lasts,  carries  all  before  it,  until,  becoming  denatural- 
ized by  the  whimsicality  or  triteness  of  its  applications, 
it  proves  distasteful  even  to  those  who,  after  having  per- 
tinaciously sustained  it,  can  no  longer  discern  in  it  that 
grace  which  had  originally  won  their  admiration.  "Did 
it  not  appear  during  all  these  last  years,"  says  Pelisson, 
"that  we  were  playing  at  that  game  in  which  even  the 
winners  lose  ?  and  did  not  most  persons  think  that,  in 
order  to  write  reasonably  in  this  style,  it  was  sufficient, 
to  say  things  contrary  to  reason  and  good  sense?     All 

'  "  Parnasse  Réformé,"  p.  27. 


86  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

persons,  of  either  sex,  thought  themselves  capable  of  doing 
this — from  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  Court  down  to  the 
servant-maids  and  valets."  '  The  booksellers  would  pub- 
lish none  but  burlesque  poems,  although  they  were  satis- 
fied if  a  work  were  written  in  short  verses  ;  so  that,  during 
the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  there  was  printed  a  Passion  of 
our  Lord  in  burlesque  verses,  "  a  bad  piece  enough,"  says 
Pelisson,  "  but  nevertheless  serious,  and  whose  title  justly 
horrified  those  who  read  no  more."  ^ 

Such  were  the  principaj  fashions  that  prevailed  jn 
poetry,  during  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Notwithstanding  their  diversity,  we  may  recognize  in 
them  a  general  character,  the  only  one  that  was  suited 
to  the  whole  of  the  literature  of  this  period — and  that  is, 
the  absence  of  all  true  and  serious  feeling,  of  all  inspira- 
tion derived  from  the  objects  themselves,  and  which 
transfers  them  completely,  first  into  the  imagination,  and 
afterward  into  the  verses  of  the  poet.  Religious  enthu- 
siasm did  not  inspire  the  innumerable  versifiers  who  then 
translated  or  paraphrased  the  Psalms  ;  love  did  not  dic- 
tate a  single  one  of  the  ten  thousand  sonnets,  madrigals, 
and  ballads,  into  which  its  name  was  so  incessantly  in- 
troduced ;  admiration  of  nature,  and  the  aspect  of  her 
beauties,  did  not  produce  one  piece  that  came  truly  from 
the  heart  or  from  a  sincerely  affected  imagination.  AVliat- 
ever  subject  was  chosen  for  a  poetical  composition,  it  was 
regarded  merely  as  a  jeu  d^ esprit — an  opportunity  for 
combining  together,  in  a  more  or  less  ingenious  manner, 
words  of  a  more  or  less  harmonious  sound,  and  ideas  of  a 
more  or  less  agreeable  meaning  ;  and  no  man,  when  writ- 
ing verses,  thought  of  looking  into  his  soul  for  his  true 

'  Pelisson,  "  Histoire  de  rAcadéinie,"  p.  171. 

*  Ibid.  p.  172.     Nearly  all  the  critics,  following  Naudé,  have  spoken  of 
tliis  as  a  burlesque  composition. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  87 

feelings  and  desires,  fears  and  hopes  ;  of  interrogating  the 
emotions  of  his  heart  and  the  recollections  of  his  life  ;  in 
short,  of  being  a  poet,  and  not  a  mere  maker  of  verses. 
Some  flights  of  a  delirious  imagination  might  be  truth- 
fully rendered  ;  humorous  hyperbole,  or  malicious  wit, 
might  furnish  some  telling  strokes  for  an  epigram  ;  but 
nothing  that  related  to  the  natural  affections  of  man,  no- 
thing of  that  which  is  truly  serious  and  real  in  his  exist- 
ence, appeared  fit  to  furnish  subjects  or  images  to  poets 
who  made  verses  about  every  thing;  and  the  impossibility 
of  finding,  in  the  poetical  productions  of  half  a  century, 
a  single  piece  really  elevated,  energetic,  or  pathetic  in  its 
tone  and  character,  is  a  phenomenon  which  reveals  to  us 
the  aspect  under  which  poetry  was  regarded  at  an  epoch 
when  natural  and  powerful  emotions  were  no  more  strang- 
ers to  the  heart  of  man  than  they  have  been  at  any  other 
period,  .  •  t 

Neither  sentiment,  nor  taste,  nor  poetical  language  are 
compatible  with  that  factitious  wit,  which  takes  no  thought 
about  things  as  they  really  exist.  In  such  a  system,  no 
object  is  regarded  in  its  true  light,  and  no  emotion  ex- 
pressed as  it  would  naturally  be  felt  ;  and  if  nature  seems 
sometimes  to  make  her  appearance,  an  incongruous  idea 
or  a  stroke  of  false  wit  hastens  to  dispel  the  illusion,  and 
to  admonish  the  reader  that  it  is  not  the  voice  of  truth 
which  he  has  just  heard.  Maynard,  in  liis  Stanzas  by  a 
Father  on  the  death  of  his  Daughter,'^  in  which  the  force 
of  the  position  described  draws  from  him  a  few  verses  of 
true  feeling,  can  not  long  maintain  his  assumed  charac- 
ter.   This  inconsolable  father  addresses  his  heart,  and  says  : 

"  Courons,  mon  cœur,  courons  donc  au  naufrage 
Dans  les  torrens  qui  naissent  de  mes  yeux." 


'  See  the  "  Recueil  des  plus  belles  Pièces  des  Poètes  Français,"  vol.  iii. 
P  6.  ,  • 


88  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

In  these  two  lines  we  meet  with  ridiculous  imagery,  false 
sentiment,  and  absurd  ideas  ;  and  nothing  of  the  kind 
would  have  occurred  to  any  poet  who  had  thought  that, 
in  order  to  deplore  such  a  loss,  he  should  consult  and  obey 
the  emotions  of  the  heart.  The  especial  deficiency  of  the 
poets  of  this  time,  is  in  meditation  :  incapable  of  retiring 
within  themselves,  and  concentrating  their  attention  on 
the  objects  which  occupy  their  imagination,  in  order  to 
investigate  their  nature  and  discover  the  sentiment  cor- 
responding thereto,  they  pass  from  one  to  another,  and 
link  them  together  without  careful  selection  or  natural 
connection,  and,  consequently,  with  as  little  taste  as  truth- 
fulness.  Saint- Amant,  the  frankest  of  all  in  his  manner, 
and  who  would  approach  most  nearly  to  truth  if  truth 
could  be  attained  without  meditation,  describes  with  con- 
siderable poetical  spirit,  in  his  piece  on  Solitude,  the  in- 
spiration which  sways  him  : 

"  Tantost  chagrin,  tantost  joyeux, 
Selon  que  la  fureur  m'enflamme, 
Et  que  l'objet  s'ofTre  à  mes  yeux, 
Les  propos  me  naissent  en  l'âme, 
Sans  contraindre  la  liberté 
Du  démon  qui  m'a  traïasporté.'" 

This  is  indeed  the  "  demon"  of  poetry  ;  but  this  demon 
should  not  be  a  vagabond,  uncertain  spirit,  leading  the 
poet  from  one  world  to  another,  without  giving  him  time 
to  describe  any  thing  in  a  complete  and  truthful  manner. 
Let  him  resuscitate  for  a  moment  the  pagan  poet,  and 
raise  him  up  in  the  midst  of  the  ideas  and  recollections 
of  mythology — Pan,  with  the  nymphs  and  dryads,  will, 
in  his  view,  people  the  groves  ;  place  him  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  superstitious  notions  of  the  Middle  Ages — 
the  night  will  be  filled  with  phantoms,  and  the  sound  of 

'  See  the  •'  Recueil  des  plus  belles  Pièces  des  Poètes  Français,"  vol.  iii. 
p.  242. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  89 

a  bell  or  the  cry  of  a  bird  will  be  the  signal  for  ghostly 
apparitions.  But  if  the  inspiration  be  real,  if  it  be  not 
the  vagrancy  of  a  mind  adopting  confusedly  all  the  ideas 
that  present  themselves  to  its  notice,  without  possessing  a 
definite  conception  of  any  one  of  them,  the  poet  will  not 
group  together  in  the  same  picture  Pan  and  the  demigods 
climbing  for  refuge,  at  the  time  of  the  Deluge,  upon  trees 
so  lofty — 

"  Qu'en  se  sauvant  sur  leurs  rameaux 
A  peine  virent-ils  les  eaux  ;" 

and  the  goblins  laughing  and  dancing  to  the  "  funeral 
cries"  of  the  osprey, 

"  Mortels  augures  des  destins." 

In  order  to  describe  the  darkness  of  a  vault,  he  will  not 
say: 

"  Que  quand  Phébus  y  descendroit 
Je  pense  qu'il  n'y  verroit  goutte." 

If  he  conducts  us  to  the  borders  of  a  marsh  so  pleasant 
that — 

"  Les  nymphes,  y  cherchant  le  frais,  >  » 

S'y  viennent  fournir  de  quenouilles, 
De  pipeaux,  de  joncs,  et  de  glais," 

he  will  not  immediately  add  : 

"  Où  l'on  voit  sauter  les  grenouilles, 
Qui  de  frayeur  s'y  vont  cacher, 
Sitôt  qu'on  les  veut  approcher."* 

Truth  of  this  kind,  devoid  alike  of  grace  and  interest,  is 
not  poetical  truth  ;  for  a  poet,  a  man  whose  mind  is 
deeply  impressed  with  elevated  or  agreeable  ideas  and 

*  These  lines  are  quoted  from  Saint-AmanVs  poem  on  "  Solitude."'     See 
the  "Recueil  des  plus  belles  Pièces  des  Poètes  Français,"  vol.  iii.  p.  236. 


90  rOETUY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

images,  will  certainly  not  think  of  the  frogs  that  are 
frisking  about  at  his  feet,  or,  at  least,  will  not  pay  so 
much  attention  to  them  as  to  describe  them. 

It  was,  nevertheless,  by  truth  of  this  factitious  and 
vulgar  character,  that  readers,  as  destitute  as  the  poets 
themselves  of  that  feeling  of  the  beautiful  which  is  only 
the  true  placed  in  its  right  position,  allowed  themselves 
to  be  delighted.  In  Colletet's'  Monologue^  which  serves 
as  the  preface  to  the  "  Comédie  des  Tuileries,"  by  five 
authors,  we  find  these  lines  : 

"  La  canne  s'humecter  de  la  bourbe  de  l'eau, 
D'une  voix  enrouée  et  d'un  battement  d'aile 
Animer  le  canard  qui  languit  auprès  d'elle.'"^ 

Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  to  whom  CoUetet  read  this  mono- 
logue, was  so  enraptured  with  the  piece,  that  he  gave  the 
author  fifty  pistoles  on  the  spot,  saying  that  it  was  a  re- 
ward for  these  three  lines  only,  and  that  "  the  King  was 
not  rich  enough  to  pay  for  the  remainder  of  the  poem."^ 
The  Cardinal  merely  desired  that,  for  the  sake  of  greater 
exactitude,  Colletet  should  introduce  this  alteration  into 
his  first  line  : 

"  La  canne  larhotter  dans  la  bourbe  de  l'eau," 

and  the  poet^  found  it  very  difficult  to  avoid  making  the 

'  The  father  of  the  Colletet  mentioned  by  Boileau. 

^  See  this  monologue  at  the  commencement  of  the  "  Comédie  des  Tuil- 
eries."    Paris,  1638. 

^  Pel/ssun,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  182  ;  and  Auhcry,  "  Histoire  du 
Cardinal  Duc  de  Richelieu,"  vol.  ii.  p.  434. 

••  On  leaving  the  Cardinal,  whom  he  had  apparently  not  yet  thoroughly 
convinced,  Colletet  wrote  him  a  letter  on  the  subject.  "  The  Cardinal  had 
just  finished  reading  it,"  says  Pelisaon,  "  when  some  of  his  courtiers  arrived, 
who  began  to  compliment  hiAi  about  some  success  just  achieved  by  the  arms 
of  the  King,  and  said,  'that  nothing  could  resist  his  Eminence.'  'You  are 
mistaken,'  answered  Richelieu,  laughing,  '  I  find  even  in  I'aris  persons  who 
resist  me  ;'  and  when  he  was  asked  who  these  foolhardy  persons  were  : 
'  (JoUetet  is  the  man,'  he  replied,  '  for  after  having  fought  with  me  yesterday 
about  a  word,  he  docs  not  surrender  yet,  but  has  just  written  me  this  long 
letter  on  the  subject.'  "     Pelis.ton,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  182,  et  scq. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  91 

correction,  which,  at  all  events,  would  have  been  in  per- 
fect keeping  with  the  whole  of  the  picture.' 

Any  one  who  reads  the  poets  of  this  period  will  be 
struck  most  forcibly  with  that  want  of  meditation  which 
prevented  their  taste  from  becoming  pure,  and  their 
sensibility  from  becoming  profound  ;  they  sometimes  pass 
before  a  great  idea,  but  they  never  stop  to  consider  it,  for 
they  have  not  the  least  suspicion  of  the  poetry  and 
grandeur  which  it  contains  ;  in  their  view,  it  is  a  mere 
mental  combination,  a  fleeting  spark  which,  far  from 
kindling  a  lasting  fire,  burns  only  to  become  extinguished 
speedily.  To  this  coldness,  which  inflicts  a  mortal  injury 
upon  poetry,  was  soon  added  that  negligence  which  is  an 
essential  characteristic  of  the  grace  of  people  of  fashion, 
and  by  which  they  denaturalize  the  things  which  they  in- 
tend to  appropriate,  in  order  to  adapt  them  to  their  use. 
As  soon  as  wit  became  fashionable,  every  body  wished  to 
write  verses  ;  and,  thanks  to  the  privilege  possessed  by 
persons  of  quality  "of  knowing  every  thing  without 
having  learned  any  thing,"  every  body  wrote  verses. 
Thenceforward  it  was  necessary  for  poets,  in  order  to  be 
in  the  fashion,  to  write  verses  like  persons  of  quality, 
that  is,  without  labor — without  what  was  called  "ped- 
antry"; it  was  necessary  to  give  them  the  "cavalicT 
turn"  of  which  that  Scudéry  was  so  proud  who  boasted 
of  having  "  used  many  more  matches  to  light  arquebuses 
than  to  light  candles,"  and  of  being  sprung  from  a  family 
which  had  never  "  worn  feathers  elsewhere  than  in  the 
hat,"  and  who  wished   to   learn   to  write  with  his   left 

'  The  whole  passage  runs  thus  : 

"  A  mesnie  temps  j"ay  veu,  sur  le  bord  d'un  ruisseau, 
La  canne  s'humecter  de  la  bourbe  de  l'eau, 
D'une  voix  enrouée  et  d'un  battement  d'aisle. 
Animer  le  canard  qui  languit  auprès  d'elle, 
Pour  appaiser  le  feu  qu'ils  sentent  nuit  et  jour, 
Dans  cette  onde  plus  sale  enc'or  que  leur  amour." 


92  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

hand,  in  order  to  be  able  to  employ  "  the  right  hand  more 
nobly.'"  "  May  the  devil  take  me,  if  I  am  a  poet,"  says 
one  of  these  coxcombical  wits,  "  and  if  I  have  the  re- 
motest conception  of  what  enthusiasm  is.  I  write  verses, 
it  is  true,  but  it  is  to  kill  time  ;  and  then  they  are  only 
little  gallant  epistles  which  I  compose  while  my  hair  is 
being  dressed.  I  leave  to  professional  poets  all  their 
cumbrous  parade  of  fictions  and  bombastic  phrases  ;  I 
deal  only  in  tender  and  delicate  expressions,  and  I  think 
that  I  have  succeeded  in  catching  that  court  air  whose 
sportive  manner  so  far  transcends  all  the  wisdom  of  the 
wise."*  These  were  the  persons  who  criticised  poetry,  to 
please  whom  it  was  written,  and  whose  style  it  was  in- 
dispensable to  imitate  in  order  to  give  them  satisfaction. 
Malherbe  was  reckoned  one  of  the  "professional  poets"  ; 
and,  but  for  the  French  which  he  had  taught  at  Court,  he 
would  have  completely  lost  himself  in  that  inundation  of 
rhymes  which  no  one  ventured  to  call  poetry. 

"  I  remember  the  time,"  says  Saint-Evremond,  "  when 
Malherbe's  poetry  was  considered  admirable  for  style  and 
justness  of  expression.  Malherbe  shortly  afterward  fell 
into  neglect,  as  the  last  of  our  poets  ;  for  caprice  had 
turned  the  attention  of  the  French  to  enigmas,  burlesque, 
and  bouts-rimes.''^^ 

From  hence,  however,  were  destined  to  issue  the  most 
brilliant  epochs  of  our  literary  glory.  Men  of  letters,  by 
their  presence  and  conversation,  had  labored  to  diffuse 
throughout  society  a  taste  for  mental  occupations:  this 
taste  had  possessed  for  themselves  all  the  attractiveness 
of  a  novelty  which  men  hasten  to  enjoy  and  parade  ;  but 
we  soon  become  accustomed  to  novelty  ;  and  when  the 

'  See  the  Preface  of  "  Lygdamon,"  addressed  to  the  Duke  de  Montmo- 
rency. 

*  "  Parnasse  Réformé,"  p.  65. 

'  Saint-Evremond,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  v.  p.  18. 


THE   TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  93 

good  which  it  at  first  served  to  adorn  becomes  in  itself  a 
real  good,  capable  of  supplying  sweet  and  true  pleasures, 
we  are  disposed,  when  the  novelty  has  passed  away,  to 
enjoy  these  pleasures  more  silently  and  deeply,  and  do  not 
feel  it  necessary  to  parade  them  every  day.  If  the  public 
had  not  yet  become  fully  enlightened,  it  had  at  least  in- 
creased in  numbers  ;  and  writers  might  hope  to  meet 
with  admirers  and  critics  beyond  the  limits  of  their  own 
particular  circle.  They  thus  began  to  gain  greater  in- 
dependence, and  acquired  not  only  more  leisure  for  medi- 
tation, but  also  more  liberty  to  follow  the  natural  im- 
pulses of  their  genius.  Nothing  was  required  but  favora- 
ble circumstances  to  guarantee  this  liberty,  to  augment 
this  leisure,  and  thus  to  place  the  poets  in  a  position  to 
produce  works  of  sufficient  merit  to  guide  the  taste  of  a 
public  which  no  longer  required  to  be  daily  amused  by 
their  wit  in  order  to  take  an  interest  in  their  labors. 

The  institution  of  the  French  Academy,  the  establish- 
ment of  theatres,  and,  shortly  afterward,  the  direct  pro- 
tection of  Louis  XIV.,  were  the  principal  causes  which 
led  to  this  great  and  felicitous  result. 

I  have  already  alluded  to  the  general  tendency  which, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  century,  direct- 
ed the  attention  of  all  minds  toward  literature.  This 
tendency  was  not  the  fermentation  produced  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  superior  genius,  whose  influence  is  para- 
mount and  universal  ;  nor  was  it  that  strong  and  con- 
tinuous warmth  which  results  from  the  equal  and  natural 
development  of  all  the  faculties  of  a  free  nation  :  it  was 
an  intense  but  uncertain  movement  toward  the  light  ;  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  action  without  any  determinate 
object,  in  which  effort  after  perfection  was  much  more 
perceptible  than  vigor  of  invention.  Fully  satisfied  with 
the  wealth  they  already  possessed,  the  poets  appeared  to 


94  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

be  anxious  only  to  set  it  in  orderly  array,  before  bringing 
it  into  Use  ;  and,  of  all  the  deficiencies  of  our  poetry, 
they  were  conscious  only  of  want  of  regularity  and  want 
of  correctness.  The  principal  object  of  their  labors  was 
the  purification  of  the  language  ;  following  the  example 
of  Malherbe,  "  that  doctor  in  the  vulgar  tongue,"  as  Bal- 
zac calls  him,'  they  believed  themselves  entrusted  with 
the  guardianship  of  its  glory  and  prosperity,  upon  which, 
in  their  opinion,  depended,  perhaps  in  a  greater  degree 
than  was  generally  believed,  the  prosperity  of  the  State. ^ 
They  devoted  themselves  to  this  task  with  all  the  assidu- 
ity that  should  be  displayed  in  the  discharge  of  a  special 
function,  and  with  all  the  zeal  that  belongs  to  the  main- 
tenance of  superior  authority.  The  taste  for  literature, 
which  had  become  diffused  throughout  society,  rendered 
the  men  whose  province  it  was  to  explain  or  enforce  its 
laws,  the  chiefs  of  a  vast  and  brilliant  empire  ;  and 
"grammar,  which  gives  rules  even  to  kings,"  could  not 
possibly  be  considered,  by  its  own  ministers,  an  object 
of  slight  importance.  Thus,  at  the  same  time  that  men 
of  letters  went  into  the  world  to  enjoy  the  success  they 
had  achieved,  they  were  frequently  brought  together, 
among  themselves,  by  a  matter  of  more  serious  interest — 
the  public  welfare.  On  such  occasions,  whatever  might 
be  the  subject  of  conversation,  purity  and  elegance  of 
language,  and  choice  and  propriety  of  terms,  were  ob- 
served with  all  the  scrupulousness  of  a  religious  duty, 
and  all  the  labor  of  an  imperative  task,  "In  contradis- 
tinction to  the  present  practice,"  says   Ménage,  "  great 

'   Bitlzac,  "  Socrate  Chrestien." 

'^  In  the  letter  which  Cardinal  Richelieu  desired  the  Academicians  to  write 
to  him  to  request  his  protection,  wc  road,  "that  it  appeared  that  nothing 
was  reijuired  to  complete  tlie  felicity  of  the  kingdom,  but  to  rescue  the  lan- 
guage that  we  speak  from  the  category  of  barbariaq  languages."  Pellsson, 
"  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  37. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  95 

care  was  taken  to  speak  correctly,  and  not  to  commit 
mistakes  in  these  social  conversations,"  *  After  one  of 
these  meetings,  Balzac  being  left  alone  with  Ménage, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  said  :  "Now  that  we  are  alone, 
let  us  speak  freely,  without  fear  of  uttering  solecisms."  ' 
Although  he  sneered  at  the  custom,  Balzac  observed  it  more 
strictly  than  most  others,  "  He  spoke,"  says  Ménage, 
"  much  better  than  he  wrote.  If  all  those  who  profess 
to  speak  correctly  had  met  together  to  construct  a  sen- 
tence they  would  not  have  succeeded  better  than  he 
did All  men  of  talent  have  been  obliged  to  con- 
sider him  as  the  restorer,  or  rather  as  the  author,  of  our 
language,  as  it  exists  at  the  present  day."  * 

However  wearisome  these  conversations  may  have  been, 
the  fatigue  they  occasioned  was  that  which  results  from 
deey  and  amusing  interest  :  from  the  records  which  we 
possess  of  the  letters,  anecdotes,  witticisms,  and  opinions 
which  formed  the  staple  of  conversation  at  this  period,  it 
is  easy  to  perceive  how  active  was  the  circulation  of 
ideas,  though  intended  almost  entirely  for  mere  ordinary 
interchange  of  daily  life.  Never,  perhaps,  were  wit  and 
erudition  so  entirely  devoted  to  the  habitual  routine  of 
existence.  Literary  meetings  multiplied  in  every  direc- 
tion ;  some  were  held  at  the  houses  of  Mile,  de  G-ournay  * 
and  of  Balzac,  and  afterward  at  the  residence  of  Ménage. 
Others  took  place  in  the  Fai/s  Latin,^  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Colleges,  at  which  men  had  begun  to  inquire 
whether  it  were  possible  to  make  some  reasonable  use  of 
the  vernacular  tongue.     Pelisson  relates  that,  on  leaving 

'  "Menagiana,"  vol.  i.  p.  306.  -  Ibid.  ^  Ibid.  p.  311. 

"•  I  do  not  know  upon  what  ground  the  Abbé  de  MaroUes  says  that  it 
was  at  her  house  that  "  the  first  idea  of  the  French  Academy  was  conceived." 
"i\Ituiioires  de  Michel  de  Marolles,"  vol.  iii.  p.  289. 

"  See  PeZwson,"  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  356;  and. the  "Mémoires  de 
Marblks,"  vol.  i.  p.  77.  '  '  "  v       • 


96  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

college,  full  of  contempt  for  the  French  language,  he 
looked  with  disdain  upon  "  the  romances  and  other  new 
pieces"  that  were  hrought  under  his  notice,  and  "re- 
turned always,"  he  says,  "to  my  Cicero  and  my  Terence, 
whom  I  found  much  more  reasonable."  At  length,  he 
was  struck  by  some  works  that  fell  into  his  hands,  among 
which  was  the  fourth  volume  of  "  Balzac's  Letters." 
"  Thenceforward,"  he  says,  "  I  began  not  only  no  longer 
to  despise  the  French  language,  but  even  to  love  it  pas- 
sionately, to  study  it  with  considerable  care,  and  to  be- 
lieve, as  I  do  still  at  the  present  day,  that  with  talent, 
time,  and  trouble,  it  might  be  rendered  capable  of  every 
thing."'  It  will  at  once  be  perceived  how  necessary 
literary  meetings  were  to  men  educated  in  this  manner. 
There  were  discussed  all  the  difficulties  of  grammar,  and 
opinions  were  pronounced  upon  new  works  :  thither  the 
wits  of  the  coterie,  sometimes  inspired  by  the  ideefs  ex- 
pressed at  these  conferences,  and  always  encouraged  by 
the  certainty  of  finding  an  attentive  audience,  brought 
the  fruits  of  their  labors.  Some  grave  censors  criticised 
these  occupations,  and  complained  that  so  much  activity 
of  mind  was  wasted  upon  words  ;  "  but  they  did  not  per- 
ceive therein  the  first  indications  of  a  more  important 
activity,  and  the  natural  feeling  of  men  who,  feeling  dis- 
posed to  meet  together,  and  desirous  to  act  in  concert, 
were  laboring  to  rescue  from  its  long-continued  barba- 
rism, that  very  language  which  was  to  serve  as  the 
medium  of  their  communications — a  work  which  they 
were  obliged  to  undertake,   as   none  of  those  superior 

'  Pclisson,  "Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  481. 

^  "  It  was  then,"  says  Marolles,  "  that  a  young  theologian,  named  Louis 
Masson,  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  uis  astonishment,  having  come 
upon  us  while  we  were  examining  certain  idioms  of  the  language  ;  which 
he  esteemed  of  little  importance  in  comparison  with  other  things  in  which, 
in  his  opinion,  it  would  have  been  much  more  proper  for  us  to  have  em- 
ployed our  time  "     "Mémoires  de  Marolles,"  vol.  i.  p.  77,  78. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE  97 

geniuses,  who  can  make  light  spring  from  the  midst  of 
chaos,  had  spared  them  the  trouble. 

About  the  year  1629,  among  thoso  who  were  thus 
brought  together  by  a  taste  for  lit<?rature,  Chapelain, 
G-ombaud,  Grodeau,  Malkvillc,  and  some  others,  living 
like  them  in  the  world  and  engaged  in  business,  annoyed 
at  not  being  able  to  meet  as  frequently  and  fi-eely  as 
they  could  have  wished,  agreed  to  assemble  on  a  certain 
day  in  each  week  at  the  house  of  Conrart,  which  was 
most  conveniently  situated  for  them  all.  This  was  not 
a  literary  meeting,  but  a  company  of  men  of  kindred 
spirit  in  every  respect,  although  similarity  of  mental 
tastes  and  occupations  was  their  principal  bond  of  union. 
"  They  conversed  familiarly,"  says  Pelisson,  "  as  they 
would  have  done  at  an  ordinary  visit,  on  all  sorts  of 
subjects,  business,  news,  literature,  and  the  like;  and 
their  conferences  were  followed,  sometimes  by  a  walk, 
and  sometimes  by  a  collation  of  which  they  partook  to- 
gether.'" They  invariably  consulted  each  other  about 
their  respective  works,  and  criticised  only  in  order  to 
advise. 

Such  a  union  of  confidence  and  friendship  admitted 
none  but  select  associates  ;  and,  in  order  not  to  be  ex- 
posed to  the  necessity  of  receiving  others,  they  resolved  to 
keep  their  meeting  secret.  During  nearly  four  years  the 
secret  was  kept,  and  they  passed  this  period  in  the  en- 
joyment of  a  happiness  which  they  doubtless  more  than 
once  regretted  in  the  sequel.  "  Even  at  the  present 
day,"  says  Pelisson,  "they  speak  of  it  as  of  a  golden 
age,  during  which,  with  all  the  innocence  and  freedom 
of  the  first  centuries,  without  noise  or  pomp,  and  with 
no  laws  but  those  of  friendship,  they  enjoyed  together 
all  the  sweetest  and  most  charming  pleasures  which 
'  Pelisson,  "Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  pp.  9    10 


98  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

the  society  of  cultivated  minds,  and  a  reasonable  life, 
can  afford.'" 

Perhaps,  however,  in  proportion,  ^s  their  taste  became 
more  pure,  and  as  they  felt  sufficient  strength  to  main- 
tain authority,  they  began  to  feel  desirous  of  obtaining  it  : 
and  perhaps  some  of  them  allowed  themselves  to  instance 
the  views  of  the  society  of  which  they  were  members,  in 
support  of  their  own  opinions.  At  all  events,  the  secret 
was  divulged.  Pelisson  says  that  Malleville  told  it  to 
Faret,^  who  immediately  presented  himself  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,'  and  was  admitted.  Faret  mentioned  the 
matter  to  Bois-Robert,  who  also  solicited  admission.  Bois- 
Hobert,  a  creature  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  was  a  man 
whom  it  was  neither  easy  to  reject  nor  impolitic  to  re- 
ceive, and  the  old  members  seemed  to  feel  this.  "  There 
was  no  appearance,"  says  Pelisson,  "  of  refusing  his  ad- 
mittance; for  besides  that  he  was  the  friend  of  most  of 
these  gentlemen,  his  fortune''  gave  him  some  authority, 
and  rendered  him  more  considerable."^  Bois-Robert 
was  admitted,  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  Cardinal 
was  informed  of  the  existence  of  the  society. 

Richelieu,  having  gained  peaceable  possession  of  the 
supreme  authority,  was  then  occupied  in  consolidating 
his  power  in  order  that  he  might  enjoy  it.^  Sharing  in 
the  taste  of  his  time  for  mental  amusements,  he  made 
them  subservient  to  his  glory  and  policy,  as  well  as  to 
his  gratification.  He  granted  to  literature  an  active  pro- 
tection, the  influence  of  which  upon  the  literature  of  his 
own  time  has,  perhaps,  been  exaggerated,  but  the  effect 
of  which  upon  succeeding  generations  can  not  be  disre- 


'  PcUssov,  "  Histoire  ilo  l'Académio,"  p.  11.  -  Ibid. 

^  Entitled  "  L'honiirtc  Homn  p."' 

*  That  is,  the  favor  in  wlii.n  lie  was  held  l)y  the  Cardinal. 
"  Pelisson,  "  Histoire  de  FAcadémie,"  p.  13. 


THE  TIME  OF  COENÈILLE.  99 

garded.  "  He  considered  the  State  in  reference  only  to 
his  own  life,"  said  Cardinal  de  Retz  ;  "  but  never  did 
minister  apply  himself  more  strenuously  to  make  people 
believe  that  he  was  arranging  for  the  future.'"  And 
never,  perhaps,  did  minister  devolve  more  completely 
upon  the  future  the  task  of  displaying  the  grandeur  of 
liis  ideas  ;  his  own  character  frequently  prevented  them 
irom  producing  an  immediate  and  continuous  effect  ;  for 
he  repressed  from  instinct  that  which  calculation  had 
prompted  him  to  elevate.  Urged  by  a  craving  after 
dominion  and  enjoyment,  anxious  to  seize  and  appropri- 
ate to  himself  that  which  he  had  originated,  he  seemed 
to  be  ignorant  that  the  germ,  when  once  sown,  becomes 
the  property  of  nature,  whose  action  can  not  accommo- 
date itself  to  that  of  power.  He  desired  that  his  author- 
ity should  regulate  even  the  most  insignificant  details  ; 
as  Cardinal  de  Retz  well  obseryes,  "he  was  a  very  great 
man,  determined  to  be  master  every  where  and  in  all 
thhigs,  and  carrying  to  a  most  sovereign  degree  the  weak- 
ness of  not  despising  little  things."*  He  protected  lit- 
erature as  a  minister  and  an  amateur,  and  the  taste  of 
the  amateur  was  supported  by  the  authority  of  the  mm- 
ister.  The  sway  which  he  exercised  over  men  of  letters  • 
was  tempered  with  familiarity,  but  it  was  the  familiarity 
of  a  master  who  gave  his  own  ideas  for  inspiration,  and 
money  for  reward.  When  Vaugelas,  whom  he  had  ap- 
pointed to  edit  the  "  Dictionnaire  de  l'Académie,"  came 
to  thank  him  for  having  restored  to  him  an  old  pension, 
as  a  recompense  for  his  labor — "  Well  !  sir,"  said  the 
Cardinal  when  he  perceived  him,  "  at  all  events  you  will 
not  forget  to  put  the  word  pension  into  your  Dictionary." 
"No,  my  lord,"  replied  Vaugelas,  "but  still  less  shall  I 
forget  the  word  gratitude^    There  was  more  nobility  in 

'  "Memoirs  of  Cardinal  de  Retz,"  vol.  i.  p.  95.  *  Ibid  pp.  13,  16. 


100  POETRY  IN  FRANCE    BEFORE 

the  answer  than  delicacy  in  the  joke  ;  but  neither  of 
them  were  aware  of  this.' 

Nevertheless,  by  rewarding  men  of  letters  by  favors 
almost  always  granted  in  the  name  of  the  State,  Riche- 
lieu supplied  them  with  the  means  of  liberating  them- 
selves from  that  dependence  upon  private  individuals  to 
which  they  were  almost  all  obliged  to  submit.  During 
his  life  they  could  not  be  otherwise  than  under  obligations 
to  the  Cardinal;  after  his  death  they  became  the  pension- 
ers of  the  G-overnment  ;  and  the  Academy,  which  he  had 
founded  merely  for  the  sake  of  having  a  literary  body  to 
protect  and  govern,  became,  some  years  afterward,  under 
the  more  liberal  patronage  of  Louis  XIV.,  a  literary  body 
that  was  destined  soon  to  belong  to  France  alone. 

From  the  accounts  given  him  by  Bois-Robert  of  the 
meetings  held  at  Conrart's  residence — of  the  talent  by 
which  they  were  distinguished — of  the  harmony  of  their 
opinions  and  the  wisdom  of  their  decisions,  Richelieu  was 
led  to  contemplate  the  establishment  of  a  new  authority 
— that  is  to  say,  of  a  new  branch  of  his  own  authority. 
He  inquired  of  Bois-Robert  whether  these  gentlemen 
would  not  like  to  form  themselves  into  a  body,  and  to 
meet  under  public  authority  ;  and  he  directed  him  to 
offer  them  "his  protection  for  their  company,  which  he 
would  have  established  by  letters-patent,  and  to  express 
to  each  one  of  them  in  particular  his  affection,  which  he 
would  manifest  to  them  on  every  occasion."'  Nothing 
could  have  been  less  agreeable  to  them  than  such  an 
honor  ;  "  and  when  it  became  necessary  to  determine 
what  answer  should  be  given,  there  was  scarcely  one  of 
these  gentlemen,"  says  Pelisson,  "  who  did  not  manifest 
the  greatest  dissatisfaction."  '     Some  even  wished  to  send 

'  Auhery,  "  Histoire  du  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,"  vol.  i.  p.  432. 
*  Pelisson,  "Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  pp.  16,  17.  •*  Ibid. 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  101 

an  absolute  refusal:  the  protection  of  the  Cardinal  would 
be  no  recommendation  to  them  in  the  eyes  of  the  public  ; 
for  the  reception  of  his  patronage  gave  rise  to  suspicions 
of  so  odious  a  character  as  to  render  it  an  object  of  dread 
to  men  of  honor.  It  was  believed  that  he  maintained 
spies  in  the  houses  of  all  the  powerful  nobles  ;  and  some 
of  the  future  Academicians — as,  for  example,  Serisay,  the 
steward  of  the  Duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  an  enemy  of 
the  Cardinal,  and  Malleville,  the  secretary  of  the  Mar- 
shal de  Bossompierre,  then  in  the  Bastile — had  great 
reason  to  fear  that  his  protection  would  lose  them  the 
confidence  of  their  masters.  But  a  prime  minister  is 
supported  by  all  those  interests  which  do  not  act  in  direct 
opposition  to  him  ;  and  Chapelain,  who  was  in  receipt  of 
a  pension  from  the  Cardinal,  gave  very  plausible  reasons 
for  accepting  his  offer,  and  reminded  his  frineds,  "that 
as,  by  the  laws  of  the  realm,  all  kinds  of  meetings  which 
were  held  without  the  permission  of  the  prince  were  pro- 
hibited, it  would  be  very  easy  for  the  Cardinal,  notwith- 
standing all  their  efforts,  to  put  a  stop  to  theirs,  if  he  had 
the  slightest  inclination  to  do  so."  '  This  argument  was 
irresistible,  and  a  letter  of  thanks  was  sent  to  the  Car- 
dinal, by  whom,  from  that  time  forth,  the  "  French 
Academy"  was  regarded  with  affection,  and  even  treated 
with  consideration. 

Immediate  steps  were  taken  to  give  the  new  institution 
the  form  which  it  has  since  retained  ;  but,  as  had  been 
foreseen,  it  became  ere  long  a  butt  for  sarcasm  and  an 
object  of  distrust.  To  excite  such  sentiments,  it  was  not 
necessary  for  it  to  have  been  the  work  of  a  feared  and 
hated  minister.  The  Parliament,  which  was  applied  to 
in  1635,  to  register  the  letters-patent,  did  not  grant  tliis 
registration  until  1637  ;  and  then  only  in  consequence 

'  Pelisson,  "  Histoire  do  l'AcaJéniie,"  p.  21. 


102  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

of  the  reiterated  demands  of  the  Cardinal  himself,  who 
threatened,  in  case  of  another  refusal,  to  refer  the  matter 
to  the  decision  of  the  Supreme  Council.  Some  of  the 
magistrates,  indignant  at  their  intervention  being  required 
in  an  affair  of  such  trivial  importance,  called  to  mind 
that,  "in  former  times,  an  emperor,  after  having  deprived 
the  Senate  of  all  cognizance  of  public  affairs,  had  con- 
sulted it  regarding  the  best  sauce  to  be  eaten  with  a 
large  turbot."  '  Others,  alarmed  at  every  thing  done  by 
the  Cardinal,  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  a  new  body 
created  by  him,  and  in  which  he  appeared  to  take  so  deep 
an  interest.  The  Cardinal  was  obliged  to  write  to  the 
first  President  that  "the  intentions  of  the  Academicians 
were  altogether  different  from  those  which  he  might  have 
been  led  to  believe  they  entertained  ;"  '^  and  the  registra- 
tion was  granted  at  length,  "  on  condition  that  the  mem- 
bers of  the  said  assembly  and  Academy  shall  occupy 
themselves  only  in  the  adornment,  embellishment,  and 
augmentation  of  the  French  language,  and  in  taking 
cognizance  of  the  books  that  shall  be  by  them  written, 
and  by  other  persons  who  shall  desire  and  wish  it."  ^ 

Among  the  people  who,  under  a  despotic  government, 
give  no  attention  to  novelties  except  to  take  alarm  at 
them,  those  who  took  notice  of  the  Academy  connected 
its  establishment  with  their  own  special  fears,  A  mer- 
chant had  entered  into  arrangements  to  purchase  a  house 
in  the  Rue  des  Cinq-Diamants,  in  which  Chapelain  re- 
sided,  in  whose  apartments   the  Academy  then  met  ;  * 

'   Pclisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  pp.  103,  104. 
-  Ibid.  p.  81. 

*  Ihid.  p.  87.  The  Platonic  Academy  of  Florence,  at  the  period  of  its 
rc-establishinent  by  Cosmo  I.,  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  was  in  like  manner 
constrained  to  al)andon  all  philo.sophical  studies,  in  order  to  devote  its  at- 
tention entirely  to  the  improvement  of  the  Italian  language.  See  Tirabosçhi, 
vol.  vii.  p.  143.  edit.  179G. 

*  Conrart  having  married  in  1G34,  \t  was  thought  advisable  to  alter  the 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  103 

having  ob.served  that,  on  certain  days  of  the  week,  a 
number  of  carriages  came  to  the  house,  he  inquired  the 
cause,  and,  on  being  informed,  broke  off  his  bargain,  say- 
ing that  he  woukl  not  live  in  a  street  in  which  une  cadé- 
mie  de  manopolcurs  was  held  every  week.'  On  the  other 
hand,  the  public  were  disposed  to  turn  into  ridicule  a 
body  that  assumed  to  subject  them  to  their  decisions.  If 
one  of  the  Academicians  manifested,  for  any  particular 
words  or  phrases,  an  aversion  which  was  common  and 
natural  enough  at  a  time  when  words  were  considered  of 
so  much  importance,  "  envy  and  slander,"  says  Pelisson, 
"  at  once  set  that  down  for  an  academical  decision  ;"  ' 
and  Saint-Evremond's  comedy  of  the  "Academicians,"^ 
in  which  they  are  represented  as  disputing  and  insulting 
one  another  about  words  which  some  wish  to  condemn 
and  others  to  absolve,  shows  very  clearly  what  was  the 
feeling  generally  entertained  regarding  them.  Men  of 
letters  themselves,  wavering  between  authority  and  the 
public,  seemed  at  first  to  feel  considerable  hesitation  about 
connecting  themselves  with  a  body  respecting  whose  na- 
ture they  did  not  yet  possess  any  clearly-defined  ideas  ;  ^ 

place  of  meeting,  which  was  transferred  first  to  the  house  of  Desmarets, 
and  afterward  to  those  of  several  other  Academicians,  until,  at  length,  at 
the  beginning  of  1643,  after  the  death  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  the  Chancellor 
Seguier,  who  at  the  end  of  the  same  year  was  chosen  hy  the  Academy  as 
their  protector,  having  expressed  a  wish  that  they  should  meet  at  his  house, 
they  continued  there  until  they  were  established  at  the  Louvre.  Pelisson, 
"  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  pp.  23,  1.51. 

1  Ibid,  p.  95. 

^  Ibid.  pp.  117,  118.  Gomberville  detested  the  word  car;  one  day  he 
asserted  that  he  had  not  used  it  once  in  his  romance  of  "  Polexandre,"  in 
which  it  was  nei'ertheless  found  to  oocur  three  times  ;  it  was  assumed  from 
this  that  the  Academy  wished  to  banish  car  from  the  language  ;  which  gave 
rise  to  many  witticisms  and  that  famous  letter  of  Voiture,  which  begins 
with  car.     See  Voiture,  "  Lettres,"  vol.  liii.  p.  132. 

^  Saint-Evremond,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  i. 

■*  Bardin,  the  first  of  the  Academicians  who  died  after  its  foundation,  had 
been  accused  of  having  unconcernedly  received  his  nomination  when  the 
Academy,  at  the  outset,  chose  him  for  one  of  those  selected  to  complete  the 


104  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

peihaps  even  some  of  tliof^e  who  belonged  to  it  sometimes 
felt  their  pride  wounded  by  the  slavery  to  vrhich  they 
were  subjected  by  the  Academy,  and  Maynard,  one  of 
their  number,  wrote  this  quatrain  on  the  subject  : 

"  En  cheveux  gris  il  me  faut  donc  aller, 
Comme  un  enfant,  tous  les  jours  à  l'école  ; 
Que  je  suis  fou  d'apprendre  à  bien  parler, 
Lorsque  la  mort  vient  m'ôtcr  la  parole  !" 

For  two  centuries,  the  advantages  and  inconveniences 
of  such  an  authority  have  been  discussed;  perhaps  it 
would  have  been  better  first  to  inquire  whether  it  were 
possible  for  an  academy  not  to  have  been  established,  at 
the  commencement  of  the  seventeenth  century.  When, 
among  a  people  not  very  numerous,  and  by  a  fortunate 
concurrence  of  moral  or  political  circumstances,  knowl- 
edge is  diffused  in  an  equable  and  continuous  manner — 
when  every  man  finds  himself  in  a  position  which  ena- 
bles him  to  enjoy  his  rights  and  display  his  faculties,  ac- 
ademies are  unnecessary,  and  by  the  natural  course  of 
things  they  either  are  not  formed  or  do  not  obtain  any  in- 
fluence. But  wherever  knowledge  and  a  taste  for  litera- 
ture— the  consequence  of  a  special  study  and  not  of  the 
general  development  of  the  human  race — are  the  exclu- 
sive property  of  a  few  individuals  and  not  the  patrimony 
of  the  whole  nation,  men  of  letters  will  be  sure  to  seek 
each  other  out  and  to  unite  together  ;  if  rivalries  cause 
temporary  divisions,  a  more  abiding  interest  will  soon 
bring  them  back  to  unity  ;  and  so  long  as  no  other  ob- 
stacle exists  among  them  but  self-love,  self-love  will  it- 
self form  the  bond,  which,  setting  aside  their  personal  an- 
imosities, will  make  them  feel  the  necessity  of  seeking 

number  of  forty.  He  afterward  -declined  the  oflicc.  It  was  probably  in 
consequence  of  sonic  instances  of  this  kind  that  the  Academj'  determined 
to  receive  none  who  did  not  apply  for  admission.  Pclisson,  "  Histoire  do 
]'.\cndPT)iip,"  pp   mv.  Dis 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  105 

support,  in  their  mutual  suffrages,  against  the  ignorance 
and  caprices  of  the  multitude.  Never  had  such  unions 
been  more  necessary  than  during  the  first  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  when  society  was  busied  with  liter- 
ary pursuits,  without  understanding  what  literature 
really  was  ;  they  naturally  sprang  into  existence  in  every 
direction,  and  as  naturally,  that  one  which  was  most  dis- 
tinguished by  the  reputation  of  its  members  or  by  their 
position  in  the  world,  could  not  fail  to  acquire  a  power  of 
opinion  which  it  would  have  retained  by  its  own  strength, 
or  would  have  lost  only  when  superseded  by  a  higher  au- 
thority of  the  same  kind.  The  language  and  taste,  at 
that  period,  imperatively  demanded  the  establishment  of 
an  authority  to  which  recourse  might  be  had  when  usage 
afforded  only  uncertain  aid  ;  and  the  authority  instituted 
in  the  French  Academy  reigned  in  the  name  of  usage, 
which  would  otherwise  have  reigned  without  its  guid- 
ance. 

In  truth,  the  first  Academicians,  in  a  fervor  of  legisla- 
tion which  probably  consoled  them  for  the  honor  which 
they  had  been  compelled  to  receive,  proposed  several  lawsf 
of  a  severity  as  singular  as  it  was  tyrannical.  Sirmond, 
for  example,  "  desired  that  all  the  Academicians  should 
be  obliged,  by  oath,  to  employ  the  words  approved  by  the 
majority  of  votes  in  the  assembly  ;"  so  that,  as  Pelisson 
observes,  "  any  one  who  failed  to  do  so,  would  have  com- 
mitted, not  a  fault,  but  a  sin."  '  This  absurd  proposition 
was  rejected  :  but  it  was  determined,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  no  Academician  should  be  allowed  to  place  his  title 
at  the  beginning  of  a  work,  unless  that  work  had  been 
approved  by  the  Academy,  whose  bookseller  swore  to 
make  no  alterations  in  it  after  such  approbation  had  been 
given.  But  the  necessity  of  passing  through  this  spe- 
'  Pelisso72,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  pp.  57.  58. 


106  POETRY  IN  FRANCE   BEFORE 

cies  of  Chancery  was  too  great  a  restraint  for  the  Ac- 
ademicians, and  they  soon  ceased  to  submit  to  it  ;  so  that 
the  bookseller  did  not  find  it  difficult  to  keep  his  oath.' 

Thus  were  gradually  rejected  or  eluded  all  those  con- 
straints which  were  based  upon  the  caprice  of  the  new 
legislators,  and  not  on  the  power  of  the  usages  and  man- 
ners of  the  time.  And  let  it  not  be  thought  that  the  reg- 
ulation of  usage  depended  upon  the  Academy  ;  it  might 
sometimes  give  vogue  to  mediocrity,  but  it  could  never 
struggle  against  genius.  The  severity  with  which  it 
condemned  Chimène's  love  did  not  prevent  Boileau  from 
extolling — 

" la  douleur  vertueuse 

De  Phèdre  malgré  soi  perfide,  incestueuse." 

The  approbation  of  the  Academy  was  undoubtedly 
sought  after  ;  but  the  works  written  to  please  it  were 
works  which  the  spirit  of  the  time  commanded  it  to  ap- 
prove. Talent  really  admired  by  the  public,  could  not  fail 
to  gain  access  to  a  body  which  necessarily  sought  all  pos- 
sible support  from  opinion,  as  opinion  was  the  sole  basis 
of  its  existence.  If'  some  few  superior  men  were  ex- 
cluded therefrom  by  other  obstacles  than  the  difference  of 
academic  opinions,  that  exclusion  never  caused  the  slight- 
est diminution  of  their  glory  or  their  literary  power,  Mol- 
ière and  La  Fontaine,  though  not  of  the  Academy,  were 
not  therefore  less  well  thought  of  or  less  honored  either 
by  the  public  or  by  the  Academicians  themselves  ;  nor 
did  they  the  less  contribute  to  the  formation  of  literary 
taste  and  opinions,  as  they  have  continued  in  France  to 
the  present  day. 

It  was,  then,  the  meeting  together  of  men  of  letters 
which  became  an  authority  in  literature.     The  Academy, 

'  Pclisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,  pp.  129,  139,  140. 


THE  TIME  OP  CORNEILLE.  107 

as  an  academy,  reinained  really  what  it  was  intended  to 
be — a  body  appointed  "  to  cleanse  the  language,"  and  to 
defend  it  against  the  corruption  which  might  be  intro- 
duced into  it  by  the  vicissitudes  of  fashion  at  Court,  the 
barbarism  of  the  formalities  of  the  palace,  and  the  slang 
of  the  various  professions/  If,  when  reducing  the  lan- 
guage to  words  commonly  used  and  generally  approved, 
the  Academy  sometimes  showed  excessive  severity — if  we 
are  implicitly  to  believe  in  that  scene  in  the  comedy  of 
the  "Academicians,"  in  which  Mile,  de  G-ournay  is  re- 
presented as  pleading  ineffectually  with  the  Academy  on 
behalf  of  the  word  angoisse,"^  which  custom  has  retained 
— this  circumstance  would  teach  us  at  the  same  time, 
that  custom  has  frequently  gained  the  victory.  If  it  was 
decided  that  the  Dictionary  of  the  Academy  should  con- 
tain all  the  words  in  the  language,  the  result  of  this  de- 
cision was  that  the  language  by  extending  its  vocab- 
ulary, enlarged  the  Dictionary.  "Words  that  had  become 
necessary,  or  that  were  of  felicitous  invention,  soon  ob- 
tained a  place  for  themselves  therein  ;  and,  even  before 
obtaining  a  place,  Corneille's  invaincu  passed  into  poetry, 
where  no  one  ventured  to  condemn  it."  The  true  author- 
ity on  these  points,  therefore,  was  that  of  our  great  mas- 
ters, or  rather  of  the  general  feeling  which  almost  always 
approved  them.  It  was  as  writers  in  possession  of  the 
means  to  secure  a  good  reception  from  the  public  that  the 
Academicians  were  the  organs  and  sometimes  the  regula- 
tors of  this  feeling  ;  as  Academicians  they  were  only  its 
archivists. 


^  Pclisso7i,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,'"  p.  40        •        ." 
*  "  Otez  moult  et  jaçoit  bien  que  mal  à  propos, 

Mais  laissez  pour  le  moins  blandice,  angoisse,  et  /os." 

Saitit-Evremond,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  i. 
'  *'  Ton  bras  est  invaincu,  mais  non  pas  invincible." 

Corneille,  "  Le  Cid." 


108  POETRY  IN  FRANCE  BEFORE 

The  direct  influence  of  the  French  Academy  upon  lit- 
erature in  general  was,  then,  only  feeble  and  limited  ;  it 
was  the  representative,  rather  than  the  guide  of  opinion. 
Doubtless  men  of  letters,  by  aspiring  to  an  honorable 
position  among  an  illustrious  body,  as  a  reward  for  their 
labors,  sometimes  sacrificed,  perhaps  unwittingly,  some- 
what of  that  independence  which  their  genius  would  have 
retained,  had  they  lived  in  isolation  and  under  the  influ- 
ence only  of  their  natural  impulses.  Poetry  especially, 
which  derives  its  sustenance  from  solitary  inspirations, 
may  have  lost  a  little  of  its  free,  original  spirit  in  that 
frequent  discussion  of  ideas,  and  that  daily  interchange  of 
mind,  which  arc  more  conducive  to  the  progress  of  reason 
than  to  the  flights  of  the  imagination;  but  this  influence 
was  especially  pov>'erful  over  the  minor  poets,  and  though 
genius  was  not  entirely  free  from  its  ascendency,  it  was 
never  either  stifled  or  subjugated  by  it.  Every  writer, 
in  particular,  may  have  been  less  free  ;  but  literature,  in 
general,  was  more  so. 

Such  was  the  direct  and  positive  effect  produced,  upon 
the  existence  of  men  of  letters,  by  the  establishment  of 
the  Academy.  The  first  moment  of  hesitation  was  short  ; 
and  general  anxiety  was  oson  manifested  for  admission 
into  a  company  protected  by  the  Prime  Minister.  The 
Chancellor  Seguier,  then  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  did  more 
than  protect  it  when,  in  1635,  he  requested  to  be  received 
as  a  member  ;  and  when,  after  the  death  of  Richelieu,  he 
became  its  protector,  he  solicited  admission  for  his  son.' 
'-.iwlpd  tiie  meetings  of  the  Academy,  at 


.,  a  .secretary  of 


THE  TIME  OF  CORNEILLE.  109 

hold  to  call  him  Monseigneur.  These  little  incidents  and 
many  others  of  a  similar  character,  soon  made  the  title 
of  Academician  a  distinct  and  honorable  title,  which, 
when  the  King  became  protector  of  the  Academy,  was 
not  thought  beneath  the  ambition  of  any  man  at  Court. 
The  two  classes  were  thus  brought  into  closer  connection 
than  they  had  ever  been  before,  but  their  respective 
position  had  changed  ;  the  man  of  letters,  certain  of  a 
good  reception  in  society,  could  now  bestow  upon  the  man 
t)f  fashion  a  distinction  all  the  more  precious  because, 
during  more  than  a  century  and  a  half,  the  literary  class, 
so  fertile  in  distinguished  talents  of  different  orders,  had 
left  very  little  space  for  a  display  of  the  less  academ- 
ical talents  of  the  men  of  the  world.  In  proportion  as, 
during  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  court  distinctions  became 
less  honorable,  distinctions  of  mind  were  more  sought 
after,  and  these  it  was  in  the  power  of  men  of  letters  to 
bestow.  At  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
they  had  been  obliged  to  waste  their  talents  in  pandering 
to  the  frivolous  pastimes  of  society  :  when  the  eighteenth 
century  arrived,  society  was  desirous  to  understand  those 
serious  ideas  which  formed  the  subject  of  their  medita- 
tions. This  revolution  in  manners  was  destined  soon  to 
become  an  intellectual  revolution,  and  finally  to  operate 
a  political  revolution,  and  to  change  the  face  of  the 
world,  after  having  at  first  changed  only  the  social  rela- 
tions of  men  of  letters  to  men  of  the  world.  But  I  pause 
before  the  immense  horizon  and  the  fathomless  abyss 
which  simultaneously  open  before  me.  I  merely  intend- 
ed to  seek  out  the  principal  causes,  and  to  sketch  the 
original  characteristics,  of  the  state  of  literature,  and 
especially  of  poetry,  in  France,  at  the  commencement  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  during  the  period  of  preparation 
for  the  advent  of  Corneille.     I  have  hitherto  said  nothing 


110  POETRY  IN  FRANCE,  ETC. 

about  the  fixed  establishment  of  theatres,  and  the  im- 
pulse which  directed  the  taste  of  France  toward  dra- 
matic literature.  To  Corneille  belongs  the  primal  glory 
of  that  literature  :  and  with  his  life  must  be  connected 
the  history  of  its  earliest  efforts. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE. 

(160G-1684.) 


The  progress  of  dramatic  art  is  not  necessarily  com 
mensurate  with  that  made  by  other  branches  of  literature 
In  regard  to  those  kinds  of  poetry  which  depend  for  their 
effect  upon  the  talent  of  the  poet  himself,  in  order  that 
the  influence  of  this  talent  may  be  properly  developed,  it 
is  necessary  that  the  taste  of  the  public  should  be  suffi- 
ciently cultivated  to  feel  and  admire  it.  The  external 
and  material  means  at  the  disposal  of  the  dramatic  au- 
thor give  much  greater  extension  to  his  audience  ;  un- 
less his  self-love  be  very  delicate,  he  will  have  slight  dif- 
ficulty in  satisfying  himself  with  the  noisy  applause  of 
the  multitude  :  indeed,  according  to  all  appearance,  it 
was  for  the  multitude  that  the  first  essays  of  dramatic 
art  were  every  where  intended.  It  was  for  men  who  were 
unsatisfied  with  merely  mental  gratifications  that  was 
first  invented  a  spectacle,  adapted  to  strike  the  senses  : 

"  Thespis  fut  le  premier  qui,  barbouillé  de  lie, 
Promena  par  les  bourgs  cette  heureuse  folie. 
Et,  d'acteurs  mal  ornés  chargeant  un  tombereau, 
Amusa  les  passants  d'un  spectacle  nouveau." 

Grenius  could  not  fail  at  once  to  appreciate  and  appro- 
priate this  happy  invention.  Poets  who  were  accustomed 
to  recite  their  verses  in  public,  easily  perceived  the  ad- 
vantage they  would  derive  by  the  employment  of  dialogue, 


112  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

and  by  the  material  representation  of  the  objects  which 
they  formerly  used  only  to  describe.  Among  our  Trouba- 
dours, similar  causes  produced  analogous  effects.  It  ap- 
pears certain  that  these  earliest  of  modern  poets  had  some 
idea  of  a  kind  of  dramatic  representation,  or  at  least  of  a 
dialogized  poetry,  which  was  recited  by  actors  who  were 
either  the  poets  themselves,  or  persons  engaged  by  them. 
During  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries,  we  fre- 
quently meet  with  theatrical  pieces,  of  a  historical  or 
satirical  character,  which  were  represented  sometimes  by 
the  orders,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  princes  whose  pas- 
sions they  flattered,'  and  sometimes  even  at  the  cost  of 
the  public,  whom  authors  undertook,  as  at  the  present 
day,  to  amuse  for  money. ^  But  the  dramatic  talents  of 
those  times,  nurtured  in  Courts  and  amid  the  fantastic 
games  of  poetry,  could  not  possibly  understand  either  the 
taste  of  the  people,  or  the  proper  character  of  an  art  which 
addresses  itself  as  much  to  the  senses  as  to  the  mind. 
Sprung  from  a  soil  which  was  not  suited  to  their  de- 
velopment, they  bore  no  lasting  fruits  ;  and,  "when  the 
Maecenases  failed,"  says  an  old  author,  "  the  poets  also 
fell  away." 

The  true  origin  of  the  theatre  in  France  was  popular. 
Every  one  knows  how  the  society  of  the  Brethren  of  the 
Passion  originated.  Pilgrims  from  Jerusalem,  from  Saint 
James  of  Compostella,  and  from  the  Holy  Balm,  with 
their  minds  filled  with  thoughts  of  the  places  they  had 
just  visited,  and  their  imaginations  excited  by  devotion 

'  Boniface,  Marquis  of  Montfcrrat,  the  protector  of  the  Albigenses,  com- 
manded the  representation  ot  a  tlicatrieal  piece  by  Ansehne  Faydit  against 
the  Council  of  Lateran,  entitled  the  "  Heresy  of  the  Fathers — VHcregia  dels 
Feyrci.^' 

'^  This  same  Faydit,  it  is  said,  "  not  satisfied  with  the  presents  which 
nobles  gave  him  for  his  works,  erected  a  place  suited  to  the  performance  of 
comedies,  and  recuived  the  money  which  the  spectators  gave  him  at  tho 
door."     "  Histoire  du  Théâtre  Français,"  vol.  i.  ]>.  13. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  113 

and  leisure,  composed  songs,  which  necessity  taught  them 
to  adorn  with  every  accessory  that  was  likely  to  attract 
attention  and  obtain  alms.  To  the  pantomime  with  which 
they  accompanied  these  songs  they  added  the  assistance 
of  dialogue  ;  and,  assembling  in  troops  in  public  localities, 
clad  in  their  copes,  covered  with  images  jof  the  saints,  and 
with  their  staves  in  their  hands,  they  edified  and  amused 
the  people.  Whether  we  are  indebted  to  them  for  the 
first  idea  of  theatrical  representations,  or  whether  they 
had  themselves  borrowed  it  from  those  rude  performances 
which  were  employed  in  the  churches  to  rekindle  the 
piety  of  the  faithful  on  the  days  of  great  festivals,'  this 
idea  was  thought  so  excellent  that  it  was  speedily  made 
use  of  as  a  means  of  popular  amusement,  and  formed  a 
part  of  the  games  by  which  the  city  of  Paris  was  wont  to 
solemnize  great  events.  Charles  VI.,  on  his  entrance, 
"  beheld  with  pleasure  what  were  then  called  mysteries; 
that  is  to  say,  various  theatrical  representations  of  en- 
tirely novel  invention."  On  the  entrance  of  Isabel 
of  Bavaria,  a  number  of  young  persons  performed  upon 
different  stages,  "  divers  histories  from  the  Old  Testa- 
ment." ^  These  pious  spectacles  speedily  became  popular 
in  all  the  provinces  of  the  realm,  and  in  most  of  the 
kingdoms  of  Christendom  ;  and  zeal  or  industry  soon  at- 
tempted to  turn  them  to  profit.  It  appears  probable  that 
the  first  representations  given  at  Saint  Maur  by  the 
Brethren,^  were  not  gratuitous  ;  at  all  events  it  is  certain 
that  when  the  Provost  of  Paris  forbade  them  to  perform 
without  the  permission  of  the  King,  and  obliged  them  to 
apply  to  Court  for  authorization,  the  letters-patent  which 

'   Such  as  the  Feast  of  Fools,  the  Feast  of  Asses,  and  so  forth. 
'  "  Histoire  de  la  Ville  de  Paris,"  vol.  xiv.  pp.  686,  707. 
^  In  1398,  they  had  hired  a  room  in  Saint  Maur,  in  which  they  repre- 
sented the  "  Mysteries  of  the  Passion  of  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.'' 


114  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

they  obtained  from  Charles  VI.,  in  1402,  granted  them 
permission  to  perform  for  profit.  ' 

Thus  was  instituted  a  theatrical  performance  according 
to  the  taste  of  the  public,  who,  by  paying  for  admission, 
obtained  the  right  of  expressing  their  opinion.  For  this, 
dramatic  art  was  indebted  to  the  Brethren  of  the  Passion. 
But  the  public,  as  uncouth  as  the  men  who  undertook  to 
divert  it,  was  not  yet  capable  of  training  them;  the 
actors  were  deficient  in  emulation,  and  the  spectators  in 
comparison  ;  and  at  the  end  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
the  last  mysteries,  though  quite  as  ridiculous  as  the  first, 
were  distinguished  only  by  less  simplicity  and  good  faith  ; 
and  the  orders  given  to  the  Brethren,  in  1548,  to  dis- 
continue this  kind  of  performance,  proves  that  good  taste 
and  good  sense  had  made  progress,  by  which  the  mystery- 
mongers  had  not  profited. 

At  this  period,  there  originated  a  new  dramatic  system, 
perfectly  independent  of  that  of  the  Brethren,  and  in- 
dependent also  of  the  taste  of  the  public,  for  whose  grati- 
fication it  was  not  designed.  This  system  was  one  of  the 
first  fruits  of  that  erudite  literature  which,  according  to 
the  usage  of  pedagogues  in  all  ages,  imposed  silence  upon 
its  disciples  before  making  any  effort  to  correct  their 
taste.  Already  several  Greek  tragedies,  among  others 
the  "  Electra"  and  the  "  Hecuba,"  had  been  translated 
into  verse,  but  simply  as  specimens  of  a  foreign  drama, 

'  The  patent  runs  thus  :  "  On  which  fact  and  mystery  the  said  Brother- 
hood has  paid  and  expended  much  of  its  property,  as  have  also  the  Brethren, 
each  only  proportionally  ;  saying,  moreover,  that  if  they  played  publicly 
and  in  common  (that  is,  before  the  people),  tliat  it  would  be  to  the  profit 
of  the  said  Brotherhood,  and  that  they  could  not  do  so  rightly  without  our 

leave  and  licence We,  who  desire  the  benefit,  profit,  and  usefulness 

of  the  said  Brotherhood,  and  that  its  rights  and  revenues  should  be  by  us 
increased  and  augmented  by  favors  and  j)rivileges,  in  order  that  each  one 
by  devotion  may  and  ought  to  join  himself  to  their  company,  have  given 
and  granted,"  &c. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  115 

and  without  the  slightest  intention  of  enriching  onr  own 
therewith.  On  the  other  hand,  the  events  of  the  fabulous 
history  of  the  G-reeks  had  been  represented  upon  our 
stage,  but  in  the  form  peculiar  to  it,'  and  without  any 
imitation  of  the  art  of  the  ancients,  from  whom  were 
borrowed  merely  subjects  more  rich  in  interest  or  more 
widely  known  than  those  that  might  have  been  supplied 
by  our  own  history.  Jodellc,  the  contemporary  and 
friend  of  Ronsard,  Du  Bellay,  Baïf  and  Pasquier — a  man 
of  small  erudition  himself,  but  whose  mind  was  deeply 
impregnated  with  the  atmosphere  of  learning  by  which 
he  was  surrounded,  was  the  first  who  conceived  the  idea 
of  introducing,  into  French  pieces  of  his  own  composition, 
the  dramatic  forms  of  the  ancients,  or  at  least  of  Horace  ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  division  into  acts,  the  three  unities, 
and  the  scrupulous  exclusion  from  the  stage  of  all 
machinery  and  hideous  representations,  especially  of  the 
devils,  hell,  and  tortures  of  the  damned  and  of  martyrs, 
which  constituted,  perhaps,  the  most  approved  part  of  the 
Mysteries.  Comedy  depicted  manners  more  elevated  than 
those  of  the  populace,  tragedy  was  reserved  for  the 
adventures  of  Kings  and  Princes  ;  and  the  poetical  coterie 
celebrated  this  invention  with  transports  of  delight. 
"  Those  who  at  that  time  were  judges  of  such  matters," 
says  Pasquier,  "  declared  that  Ronsard  was  the  first  of 
poets,  but  that  Jodelle  was  the  dœmon  of  poetry  him- 
self.'"^ The  unimpassioned  frigidity  of  these  tragedies, 
which  were  composed  almost  entirely  of  narratives  and 

'  We  have  the  "  Mystère  de  la  Destruction  de  Troyes  la  grant,"  in  four 
days,  which  comprehend  the  whole  period  which  elapsed  from  the  judgment 
of  Paris  until  the  return  of  the  Greeks  after  the  capture  of  Troy.  Paris  is 
represented  as  offering  a  hundred  croion-pkccs  to  the  temple  of  Venus,  and 
a  note  informs  us  that  Troy  was  forty  leagues  in  length  and  eight  in 
breadth.  The  writer  was  probably  ignorant  of  that  passage  in  Homer  in 
which  Achilles  chases  Hector  thrice  round  the  walls  of  Troy 

^  "  Pasquier,"  book  vii.  p.  705.  -      .   • 


116  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

monologues,  was  not  distasteful  to  men  whose  minds  were 
driven  to  the  opposite  extreme  by  their  contempt  for  the 
performances  of  the  Brethren  ;  and  the  indecency  of  the 
comedies  could  not  revolt  an  age  in  which  farces  were 
still  tolerated. 

These  two  kinds  of  dramatic  composition,  then,  pos- 
sessed in  France  at  this  period  rules  know^n  and  approved 
by  the  sovereign  authorities  in  literature  ;  by  the  Court 
which,  unskillful  in  creating  pleasures  for  itself,  willingly 
accepted  those  which  were  offered  to  it  ;  and  by  poets  and 
learned  men,  by  whom  the  new  pieces  were  written,  per- 
formed, and  applauded.  "  '  Cleopatra,'  a  tragedy,  by 
Jodelle,  and  '  La  Rencontre,'  a  comedy,  by  the  same 
author,  were  performed  before  King  Henry  at  Paris,  at 
the  Hotel  de  Reims,  with  great  applause  from  the  whole 
company  ;  and  afterward  again  at  the  College  de  Bon- 
court,  at  which  all  the  windows  were  crowded  by  an 
infinity  of  persons  of  honor  ....  And  the  actors  were  all 
men  of  name,  for  even  Remy  Belleau  and  Jean  de  la  Peruse 
played  the  principal  parts.'"  Jodelle,  who  was  young  and 
handsome,  had  undertaken  the  part  of  Cleopatra. 

This  new  form  of  dramatic  art  laid  open  to  poets  a 
career  which  they  might  well  judge  worthy  of  their  tal- 
ents ;  the  imitation  or  even  translation  of  the  Greek 
tragedies  furnished  them  with  numerous  and  fertile  sub- 
jects. In  truth,  they  strangely  changed  their  nature  in 
their  imitations  ;  for  they  lived  at  a  time  which  could 
not  conceive  of  grandeur  without  emphasis,  and  when 
naturalness  speedily  degenerated  into  coarseness  ;  the 
dignity  of  supreme  rank,  the  lofty  character  of  the  learn- 
ed French  spoken  by  the  personages  in  their  tragedies, 
did  not  always  jireserve  them  from  the  tone  and  manners 
of  low  life  ;  and  the  lovers  of  antiquity  were  not  shocked 

*  "  Pasquier,"  book  vii.  p.  704. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  117 

at  seeing  Jodellc's  Cleopatra,  when  Seleucus  accuses  her 
before  Augustus  of  having  concealed  a  portion  of  her 
treasures,  seize  Seleucus  by  the  hair,  and  overwhelm  him 
with  blows  and  insults.  .        •  • 

More  successful  in  comedy,  which  he  based  upon  the 
manners  of  the  time  alone,  and  supported  perhaps  by 
some  national  models  of  true  comicality,  endemic  in 
France,  as  is  proved  by  the  old  farce  of  "  Patelin,"  Jo- 
delle  was  also  more  successfully  imitated.  Comedies 
devoid  of  character  and  probability,  but  not  without 
intrigue  and  gayety,  presented  some  more  natural  pro- 
ductions of  the  French  mind.  Ere  long  Larivey  intro- 
duced, with  considerable  success,  upon  our  stage,  some 
imitations  of  Latin  and  Italian  comedies  ;  and  at  the 
same  time  Gamier,  the  immediate  successor  of  Jodelle, 
whose  reputation  he  outshone,  gave  greater  nobleness  to 
the  tone  of  tragedy.  Without  clothing  it  with  an  inter- 
est and  verisimilitude  which  the  art  of  the  poets  of  that 
period  was  not  capable  of  reoorlciling  with  the  restraint 
imposed  by  observance  of  the  unities,  he  imparted  to  it 
greater  decency,  arrayed  it  in  a  more  poetical  style,  and 
introduced  a  pathos  of  sentiment  which  was  not  what 
Ronsard  and  his  partisans  had  sought  to  imitate  from 
the  ancients. 

This  progress  was  still  confined  within  the  narrow 
sphere  by  which  poets  were  then  surrounded.  The 
Brethren  of  the  Passion,  in  possession  of  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  offering  to  the  public  a  performance  for  ad- 
mission to  which  money  was  to  be  paid,  but  unable  of 
themselves  to  turn  this  privilege  to  further  advantage, 
since  they  had  been  forbidden  to  perform  mysteries, 
leased  the  privilege  and  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  to  a 
troop  of  comedians,  whose  aim  was  no  longer  to  edify, 
but  simply  to  amuse,  the  spectators,     ft  was  not  with 


118  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

poetry  in  Ronsard's  style,  or  with  tragedies  even  more 
devoid  of  action  than  laden  with  erudition,  that  the  spec- 
tators at  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  were  to  be  amused. 
Broad  farces  and  moralities,  the  subjects  of  which  were 
taken  from  recent  and  well-known  occurrences — such  as, 
for  example,  the  execution  of  a  valet  at  the  Place  de 
Grève  for  ^having  seduced,  his  master's  wife  (the  valet 
being  hanged  upon  the  stage) — were  what  suited  the 
taste  of  the  frequenters  of  the  Théâtre  des  Confrères. 
The  educated  poets  of  the  time  do  not  appear  to  have 
ever  intrusted  their  pieces  to  the  comedians  of  the  Hotel 
de  Bourgogne,  They  were  performed  either  in  the  col- 
leges, or  at  the  expense  of  some  of  the  nobility  ;  most 
were  merely  made  public  by  means  of  the  press,  and 
then  any  one  who  pleased  might  perform  them.  Grar- 
nier,  in  the  preface  to  his  "  Bradamante,"  informs  "  those 
who  may  choose  to  perform  it"  that,  as  there  are  no 
choruses  to  the  piece,  the  acts  must  be  separated  by 
means  of  interludes;  and  we  learn  from  the  "Roman 
Comique"  that  the  provincial  actors  used  to  play  "  Brad- 
amante." 

Sometimes,  when  tragedies  had  been  printed  and  pub- 
lished, the  comedians  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  endeav- 
ored to  turn  them  to  account  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  they 
did  not  meet  with  a  favorable  reception  from  spectators 
who  were  unable  to  comprehend  them.  These  perform- 
ances, however,  and  their  publication,  obtained  for  them 
a  kind  of  popularity  in  the  semi-literary  world,  which 
increased  in  numbers  daily.  This  period  was  inundated 
by  a  host  of  tragedies  divided  into  acts  ;  but  it  must  bo 
confessed  that  these  acts,  which  were  sometimes  seven 
in  number,'  frequently  include,  in  the  same  performance, 

'  As,  for  example,  tlie  "  Caminate"  of  Jean  Hays,  king's  advocate  in  the 
bailiwick  of  Rouen,  published  in  1597. 


f»IERRE  CORNEILLE.  119 

as  many  years  and  countries  as  the  old  mysteries  could 
have  done.  Fabulous  and  historical  ideas  are  commin- 
gled therein  in  the  strangest  fashion.  In  16G1,  nine 
years  after  Jodelle's  pieces  had  obtained  such  brilliant 
success,  Jacques  Grevin,  in  the  preface  to  his  dramatic 
works,  complains  of  "  the  grievous  faults  that  are  daily 
committed  in  the  games  of  the  University  of  Paris,  which 
ought  to  be  a  paragon  of  perfection  in  all  kziowledge,  but 
where,  nevertheless,  they  perpetrate,  after  the  manner  of 
tumblers,  a  massacre  upon  a  scaffold,  or  utter  a  speech 
of  two  or  three  month's  length."  "^  The  rules  of  Aristotle, 
which  were  violated  as  frequently  as  those  of  common 
sense,  were  as  incapable  of  reforming  the  taste  of  the 
public  as  they  were  of  satisfying  it. 

One  fact  is  especially  deserving  of  remark  at  this  pe- 
riod, and  that  is,  the  small  number  of  comedies,  as  com- 
pared with  the  countless  host  of  tragedies,  that  were 
written.  Perhaps  the  labor  of  invention  which  was  in- 
dispensable in  a  kind  of  composition  that,  unlike  tragedy, 
could  not  draw  upon  history  for  its  subjects  and  materi- 
als, deterred  literary  men  in  general  from  devoting  their 
talents  to  comedy.  Thus  much  is  certain  that,  in  both 
kinds  of  dramatic  composition,  Jodelle,  with  his  contem- 
poraries and  successors,  contributed  but  very  little  to  the 
improvement  of  our  national  drama,  if  we  may  give  such 
a  name  to  those  crude  performances  with  which  the  peo- 
ple of  Paris  and  the  provinces  allowed  themselves  to  be 
amused  or  bored  for  nearly  two  centuries. 

'  In  the  "  Soltane"'  of  Gabriel  Bounyii,  published  in  1560,  the  Sultana 
Rose,  a  witch,  in  order  to  destroy  the  son  of  her  husband,  the  Sultan  Soly- 
man,  proposes  to  call  in  the  demons  to  her  aid,  among  whom  she  enumer- 
ates Vulcan  ivith  his  dragoons.  In  the  "  Aman"  of  Pierre  Mathieu,  Aman, 
whose  pride  drives  him  mad,  boasts  that  he  is  the  gun  of  the  infernal  troop. 
In  the  "  Loyauté  Trahie"  of  Jacques  du  Hamel,  published  in  1586,  we  meet 
■with  an  Infanta  of  Asfracan  at  the  court  of  a  King  of  Canada.  These  are 
but  a  few  out  of  many  thousands  of  similar  instances. 


120   ,  LIFE  AND  WEITINGS  OF 

It  was,  nevertheless,  from  this  rude  cradle  that,  dating 
from  the  early  years  of  the  seventeenth  century,  dramatic 
art  issued  to  make  most  rapid  progress.     Civil  war  had 
broken  up  old  customs  ;  peace  and  happiness,  restored  by 
the  triumph  of  Henry  IV.,  demanded  the  institution  of 
new  ones  ;  and  the  pleasures  which  Paris  could  afford,  no 
longer  satisfied  its  inhabitants.     The  contempt  into  which 
the  Brethren  of  the  Passion  had  fallen,  encouraged  men 
to  attack  their  privileges.     Various  troops  of  playwrights 
had  already  unsuccessfully  attempted  to  do  so  ;  but  at 
length,  in  the  year  1600,  notwithstanding  the  opposition 
of  the  Brethren  and  the  decrees  of  the  Parliament,  a  new 
troop  established' itself  in  Paris,  at  the  Hotel  d'Argent,  in 
the  Marais,  on  condition  of  paying  the  privileged  fratern- 
ity one  crown-piece  for  every  performance.     The  hopes  of 
the  new  company  were  based  upon  an  engagement  which 
they  had  made  with  a  man  whose  success  is  as  astonish- 
ing to  us  as  his  talents  w^ere  marvellous  to  his  contempo- 
raries.    Hardy,  the  founder  of  the  Parisian   stage,  and 
the    precursor   of  Corneille,  was  not  one  of  those    men 
whose  genius  changes  or  determines  the  taste  of  his  age  ; 
but  he  was  the  first  man  in  France  who  conceived  a  just 
idea  of  the  nature  of  dramatic  poetry.     He  understood 
that  a  theatrical  piece  ought  to  have  a  higher  aim  than 
merely  to  satisfy  the  mind  and  reason  of  the  spectators  ; 
and  he  was  at  the  same  time  of  opinion,  that  carefulness 
to  employ    their    senses    and    excite   their   imagination, 
should  not  prevent  the  play  from  being  regulated  by  rea- 
son and  probability.     Hardy  was  not  one  of  those  erudite 
and  happy  poets  who  were  content  to  Ihnit  their  ambition 
to  obtaining  the  suffrages  of  literary  men  and  the  applause 
of  Courts.     Though  daily  compelled  to  look  to  his  talents 
to  furnish  him  with  the  means  of  subsistence,  ho  was  not 
one  of  those  mountebanks   who   arc  capable   merely  of 


PIERRK  CORNEILLE  121 

amusing  a  populace  in  whose  ignorance  they  participate. 
His  education  had  not  left  him  unacquainted  with  the 
literary  acquirements  of  his  time.  His  poverty  had  con- 
nected him  with  a  troop  of  wandering  comedians,  who 
were  more  at  liberty  to  exercise  their  profession  in  the 
provinces  than  in  Paris,  whence  they  were  banished  by 
the  monopoly  possessed  by  the  Brethren.  Thus  early  ac- 
customed to  stage  plays,,  he  endeavored  to  apply  to  an  im- 
portant mode  of  action  the  rude  means  of  interest  which 
those  plays  could  furnish.  The  step  which  he  had  to  take, 
and  which  he  really  did  take,  can  alone  explain  the  suc- 
cess which  he  obtained. 

Those  foreign  critics'  who  represent  the  French  drama, 
subsequently  to  Jodelle,  as  trammelled  by  the  general 
adherence  of  the  public  to  the  authority  of  Aristotle's 
rules,  either  have  not  read  Hardy,  or  appreciate  very  im- 
perfectly his  importance  in  the  history  of  the  stage  in 
Fi"ance.  Hardy  was  irregular  enough  to  have  been  a 
Shakspeare,  if  he  had  possessed  a  Shakspeare's  genius. 
His  first  dramatic  work  with  which  we  are  acquainted 
contains  the  whole  romance  of  "  Theagenes  and  Charic- 
lea  ;"*  it  is  divided  into  eight  days,  one  for  each  book  of 
the  romance,  and  is  wi-itten  in  precisely  the  same  form  as 
the  Mysteries.  To  say  truth,  this  work  met  with  an  un- 
favorable reception  from  men  of  letters  :  "I  know,  read- 
er," says  Hardy  himself,''  "  that  my  '  Ethiopie  Story,' 
rendered  monstrous  by  the  faults  that  crept  into  the  first 
impression,  produced  an  unfavorable  feeling  with  regard 
to  my  other  works  in  the  minds  of  certain  imitators  of 
Aristarchus."     In  order  for  this  piece,  when  printed,  to 

'  Among  others,  M.  Boutenvck,  in  his  "  History  of  French  Literature." 
pulilished  at  Gottingen,  in  1809. 

-  "  Les  chastes  et  longues  Amours  de  Théagène  et  Chariclée,"  in  eight 
consecutive  dramatic  or  theatrical  poems.      1600 

'*  In  preface  to  "  Didon  sc  sacrifiant."     ' 

F 


V2'A  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

have  been  deemed  worthy  of  the  attention  of  the  critics, 
it  must  have  obtained  considerable  success  when  perform- 
ed. Perhaps,  a  larger  amount  of  success  would  have 
gained  their  approbation  for  the  work.  At  all  events,  if 
we  judge  of  what  the  critics  required  by  what  Hardy  gave 
them,  it  is  evident  that  a  very  strict  adherence  to  rules 
was  not  expected  of  dramatic  authors,  and  that  Aristo- 
tle's authority  was  not  so  great  on  the  stage  as  it  was  in 
the  schools. 

After  the  production  of  the  "  Loves  of  Theagenes  and 
Chariclea,"  Hardy  abandoned  the  arrangement  of  his 
dramas  into  days,  and  divided  his  pieces  into  acts,  giving 
them  the  more  becoming  name  of  tragedies  and  tragi- 
comedies,' But  he  did  not  consider  himself  obliged,  by 
the  adoption  of  this  new  costume,  to  observe  more  rigid 
regularity.  In  the  first  act  of  his  "  Alcestis,"  he  repre- 
sents Hercules  at  the  court  of  Eurystheus  ;  in  the  sec- 
ond, third,  and  fifth  acts,  the  scene  is  laid  at  the  court 
of  Admetus  ;  and  in  the  fourth,  we  are  taken  to  the  infer- 
jial  regions,  whither  Hercules  goes  to  fetch  Alcestis,  and 
whence,  on  the  same  occasion,  he  delivers  Theseus  and 
carries  off  Cerberus.  In  "  Phraates,  or  the  Triumph  of 
True  Lovers,"  the  spectator  travels  from  Thrace  into 
Macedonia,  and  from  Macedonia  back  again  into  Thrace. 
The  tragedy  of  "  Pantheus"  extends  over  several  days  ; 
the  first  three  acts  of  "  G-esippus,  or  the  Two  Friends," 
take  place  at  Athens,  and  the  last  two  at  Rome,  several 
years  afterward.  Doubtless  relying  very  little  upon  af- 
fording gratification  to  the  spectators  by  means  of  a  dia- 
logue which,  though  sometimes  rational,  was  always  cold, 
languishing  and  unattractive,  Hardy  made  up  for  the^ 

'  He  givps  the  name  of  a  "dramatic  poem,"  however,  to  his  "Gigan- 
tomachia,"  a  piece  in  which  machinery  is  introduced,  to  represent  a  com- 
bat of  the  gods  with  the  giants.  This  piece  is,  nevertiiciess,  divided  into 
acts. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  123 

omission  of  this  by  the  introduction  of  action,  which  he 
employed  without  reserve.  In  "  Scedasus,  or  Hospitality 
Violated,"  two  young  girls  who  are  ravished  by  their 
hosts,  defend  themselves  upon  the  stage  to  the  last  mo- 
ment, and  probably  end  by  retreating  behind  the  scenes, 
though  this  is  not  indicated  by  any  interruption  of  the 
dialogue.  Their  ravishers  afterward  put  them  to  death 
upon  the  stage.  In  "  Lucretia,"  who  is  certainly  not 
Lucretia  the  chaste,  a  husband,  the  witness  of  his  wife's 
infidelity,  narrates  to  the  spectator  what  is  passing  be- 
tween the  two  lovers  behind  the  scenes,  and  does  not  in- 
terrupt them  until  he  has  "  seen  with  his  own  eyes"  that 
which  he  requires  to  authorize  him  to  put  them  both  to 
death.  Aristoclea,  in  the  "  Unfortunate  Marriage,"  dies 
upon  the  stage  in  consequence  of  the  effort  made  by  the 
servants  of  Straton,  who  is  in  love  with  her,  to  carry  her 
oft"  from  the  relatives  of  Callisthenes,  her  husband,  who 
are  naturally  anxious  to  detain  her. 

In  these  compositions,  it  is  difficult  to  discern  what 
constitutes  the  difference  between  tragedy  and  tragi- 
comedy ;  it  certainly  depends  neither  upon  the  nature 
of  the  subject,  nor  upon  the  rank  of  the  personages. 
"  Scedasus,"  all  the  personages  of  which  are  merely 
private  individuals,  is  a  tragedy,  and  certainly  deserves 
this  title  from  its  dénouement;  but  the  frightful  death 
of  Aristoclea  furnishes  nothing  more  than  a  tragi-comedy. 
"  Dido"  is  a  tragedy  ;  but  the  dignity  of  the  personages 
of  "  Alcestis,"  and  the  pathetic  character  of  their  posi- 
tion, do  not  raise  it  above  the  rank  of  a  tragi-comedy. 
Two  subjects,  both  equally  tragic,  derived  from  the  Greek 
mythology,  furnish  Hardy  with  the  tragedy  of  "Melea- 
ger,"  and  the  tragi-comedy  of  "  Procris."  The  irregu- 
larity is  the  same  in  both  kinds  of  composition  ;  and  as 
regards  tone,  that  of  Hardy,  in  general  not  very  lofty, 


124  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

scarcely  allows  us  to  perceive  the  shades  of  that  more 
familiar  naturalness  which  he  appears  to  have  wished  to 
introduce  into  some  scenes  of  his  tragi-comedies.  In 
"  Procris,"  for  example,  Tito  complains  to  his  confidant 
in  very  light  terms  of  the  infidelity  of  his  w^ife,  and 
Aurora  banters  Cephalus  with  considerable  freedom  of 
speech  ;  and  in  "  Alcestis,"  the  father  and  mother  of 
Admetus,  after  having  expressed  their  grief  that  they 
can  not  ransom  their  son's  life  by  the  sacrifice  of  their 
own,  change  their  mind  when  informed  by  the  oracle 
tliat  it  is  in  their  power  to  save  him  by  an  act  of  self- 
devotion,  and  unite  in  declaring  that  they  would  rather 
live  the  whole  time  allotted  to  them  by  the  Fates. 

Hardy,  then^  was  neither  the  successor  of  Jodelle  and 
Garnier,  nor  the  imitator  of  the  Grreeks,  but  a  national 
dramatic  poet,  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to  be  such  in  a 
literature  in  which  recollections  of  the  ancients  occupied 
so  prominent  a  position.  Hardy  was  not  guided  by 
their  precepts,  although  he  sometimes  profited  by  their 
example  ;  he  frequently  borrowed  from  them  subjects  for 
his  dramas,  but  did  not  imitate  their  treatment  of  them; 
he  omitted  from  their  rules  whatever  he  thought  un- 
suited  to  the  stage  and  the  prevailing  taste  of  his  time  ; 
and,  while  he  adopted  the  arrangement  of  their  trage- 
dies, he  did  away  with  the  choruses,  as  being  "superflu- 
ous to  the  performance,  and  too  troublesome  to  recast." 
He  remodelled,  according  to  his  own  manner,  the  subjects 
which  he  adopted.  Too  sensible,  and  too  unversed  in 
the  ways  of  the  world,  to  dress  up,  as  was  done  at  a 
later  period,  Greek  and  Roman  characters  in  the  costume 
of  the  day,  he  was,  nevertheless,  careful  to  strip  them  of 
that  antique  and  local  coloring  which  would  greatly 
have  astounded  an  entirely  French  audience.  In  was  in 
French,  moreover,  although  in  bad  French,  that  Hardy 


PIKRRE  CORNEILLE.  125 

addressed  the  public.  The  faults  of  this  style  are  neither 
the  erudite  obscurity,  nor  the  contorted  phraseology,  nor 
the  studied  neologism  of  Ronsard  ;  he  is  characterized  by 
the  harshness,  incorrectness,  impropriety  and  triviality  of 
a  man  whom  the  necessity  of  providing  for  his  own  sub- 
sistence and  for  that  of  a  troop  of  comedians,  sometimes 
compelled  to  furnish  two  thousand  lines  in  twenty-four 
hours.  Hardy's  talent  knew  no  other  shackles  but  those 
of  poverty  ;  fecundity  was  all  that  was  expected  from 
him,  and  never  was  a  duty  better  fulfilled.  Six  hundred 
dramatic  pieces,'  all  in  verse,  and  some  of  which  were 
composed,  learned,  and  performed  within  three  days,' 
served  by  their  number,  as  much  as  by  their  merit,  to 
establish  Hardy's  reputation,  and  a  taste  for  dramatic 
works,  in  France.  Like  Hardy,  Lope  de  Vega  composed 
a  play  in  twenty-four  hours  ;  and  both  these  men  were 
the  founders  of  the  drama  of  their  respective  nations. 
Variety  is  the  merit  most  necessary  to  insure  the  primary 
success  of  an  art  which  requires  a  crowd  to  witness  its 
efforts  :  before  having  formed  that  taste  or  habit  which 
enlists  the  attention  of  spectators,  movement  must  be 
supplied  to  attract  them,  and  curiosity  alone  is  able  to 
produce  this  movement  ;  but  this  curiosity  nmst  be  con- 

^  Some  say  eight  hundred  ;  onl}'  forty-one  are  now  extant,  includinor  the 
eight  dramatic  poems  which  relate  the  "  Loves  of  Theagenes  and  Chariclea." 
See  Gueret,  "  Guerre  des  Auteurs,"  p.  161. 

^  It  appears  that  the  price  of  these  was  three  crowns  apiece.  Made- 
moiselle Beaupré,  the  actress  who  performed  in  the  dramas  of  both  Hardy 
and  Corneille,  used  to  say  :  M.  Corneille  has  done  us  great  injury  ;  for- 
merly we  used  to  have  dramas  at  three  crowns  each,  which  were  written 
for  us  in  a  night  ;  people  were  used  to  them,  and  we  gained  a  great  deal  by 
them;  now.  Corneille's  pieces  cost  us  a  great  deal,  and  gain  us  very  little." 
"  It  is  true,"  adds  Segrais,  who  relates  this  remark,  "  that  these  old  pieces 
were  wretchedly  bad  ;  but  the  actors  were  excellent,  and  gained  applause 
for  them  by  their  atlmirable  performance."  ("  Segraisiana,"  p.  214.)  Hardy 
was,  it  is  said,  the  first  man  who  received  nionej'  for  his  pieces.  Pre- 
viously, the  actors  used  to  take  such  as  they  found  in  print,  or  else  wrote 
dramas  for  themselves.  -      .  ,  t-  . , 


126  1-lFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

tinually  renewed,  and  must  incessantly  recall  the  mind, 
by  the  expectation  of  novelty,  toward  pleasures  which 
habit  has  not  yet  transformed  into  necessities.  Neither 
the  relative  decency  which  Hardy  infused  into  the  tone 
of  his  characters,  nor  a  certain  measure  of  reason  and 
probability  which  he  endeavored  to  introduce  into  his 
plans,  nor  the  movement  which  he  invariably  imparted 
to  his  action,  nor  even  the  machinery  with  which  he 
sometimes  adorned  his  plays,  would  long  have  reconciled 
the  spectators  to  pieces  in  which  they  found  nothing 
either  to  satisfy  a  discriminating  taste,  or  to  awaken 
profound  emotion.  If,  however,  Hardy  had  employed 
the  same  time  in  perfecting  his  plays  which  he  did  in 
varying  their  subjects,  some  few  men  of  taste  might 
possibly  have  applauded  his  intentions,  but  the  multitude 
would  certainly  have  withdrawn  their  patronage.  Cin- 
thio,  an  actor  belonging  to  an  Italian  troop,  answered 
the  Earl  of  Bristol,  who  found  fault  with  him  for  the 
want  of  probability  of  the  pieces  which  he  performed  : 
"If  there  were  more  of  it,  good  actors  would  die  of 
hunger  with  good  comedies."  And  when  actors  die  of 
hunger,  they  leave  no  successors,  and  dramatic  authors, 
in  consequence,  come  to  an  end. 

Hardy's  performers  did  not  starve  ;  and  this  was  then 
the  greatest  service  that  he  could  have  rendered  to  his 
art.  Frequently,  a  thin  attendance  of  spectators  obliged 
the  two  troops  to  unite,  and  limit  their  exertions  to  a 
single  performance  at  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne,  the  actors 
belonging  to  which  obtained,  in  1612,  the  title  of  the 
"  King's  Comedians,"  and  a  pension  of  twelve  hundred 
livres  ;  but  ever  after  the  year  1600,  there  was  always 
at  least  one  troop  of  actors  at  Paris,  and  Hardy's  dramas 
long  constituted  their  principal  stock  in  trade.  The  mo- 
ment had  arrived  when  poets  only  required  the  establish- 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  127 

ment  of  a  regular  theatre  to  induce  them  to  write  for  it. 
Hardy  had  rendered  the  stage  more  decent,  and  more 
worthy  of  their  efforts.  The  taste  which  the  public  was 
beginning  to  feel  for  mental  enjoyments  found  only  weak, 
and  chilling  nutriment  in  the  precise  and  formal  verses 
of  Malherbe's  school.  The  stage  summoned  to  its  aid  all 
those  men  whom  a  more  lively  imagination,  a  more  un- 
fettered genius,  and  a  more  active  character,  urged  upon 
a  more  animated  career  and  to  more  boisterous  success. 
Théophile,  a  poet  very  deficient  in  taste,  though  not  want- 
ing in  talent,  thus  addresses  Hardy  : 

"  Jamais  ta  veine  ne  s'amuse 
A  couler  un  sonnet  mignard  ; 
Détestant  la  pointe  et  le  fard 
Qui  rompt  les  forces  à  la  muse. 


Je  marque  entre  les  beaux  esprits, 
Malherbe,  Bertaut,  et  Porchères, 
Dont  les  louanges  me  sont  chères, 
Comme  j'adore  leurs  écrits. 
Mais  à  l'air  de  tes  tragédies 
On  verroit  faillir  leur  poumon, 
Et  comme  glaces  du  Strymon 
Seroient  leurs  veines  refroidies.'' 


Théophile  gave  to  the  stage  his  "  Thisbe,"  in  which  we 
sometimes  meet  with  a  poetic  elegance  of  which  Hardy 
never  had  any  idea,  mingled  with  the  ridiculous  concetti 
of  the  time.  Racan,  whose  imagination  Malherbe  ad- 
mired, and  whose  negligence  he  blamed,'  introduced  into 
his  "  Bergeries"  still  greater  elegance  and  purity.  The 
names  of  Mairet  and  Rotrou  became  known  by  their 
dramatic  works  alone  ;  and  Scudéry  and  La  Calprenède 
devoted  themselves  to  the  stage  with  heart  and  soul. 
"After  Théophile  had  performed  his  'Thisbe,'  and  Mairet 
his  '  Sylvie,'    M.  de   Racan   his   '  Bergeries,'  and   M.  de 

'  Malherbe  used  to  say  of  Racan  "  that  he  had  power,  but  that  he  did  not 
labor  enough  at  his  vcr.scs."     Fclisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"'  p.  47. 


128  LIFE  AND  AVRITINGS  OP 

G-ombaud  his  '  Amaranthe,'  the  stage  became  more  cele- 
brated, and  many  persons  endeavored  to  give  it  new  sup- 
port.     The   poets  no  longer   made  any  difficulty  about 
allowing  their  names  to  appear  on  the  bills  of  the  actors  ; 
for  formerly,  no  author's  name  had  been  given,  but  it 
was  simply  stated  that  their  author  had  written  for  them 
a  comedy  of  a  certain  name."  '     The  dramatic  poet  was 
no  longer  the  mithor  of  the  actors,  but  of  the  public  ;  the 
dramatic  art  became  in  literature  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant means  of  achieving  success,  and  the  taste  which 
Cardinal  Richelieu  felt  for  this  kind  of  amusement  soon 
made   it  one    of  the   surest   means   of   obtaining   favor 
French  poetry  was  evidently  turning  in  the  direction  of 
dramatic  composition  ;  but  there  was  nothing  as  yet  to 
announce  the  impulse  it  was  about  to  receive  from  Cor- 
neille.    It  is  easy  to  conceive  what  must  have  been  the 
condition  of  a  drama  abandoned  to  the  caprices   of  an 
imagination  that  sought  only  to  deliver  itself  from  the 
yoke  of  the  rules  imposed  upon  other  kinds  of  poetry — 
of  a  drama  satisfied  with  the  applause  of  a  public  that 
desired  nothing  but  novelty — subject  to   the  whims  of 
fashion,  and  to  the  ambition  of  all  those  poets  who  were 
led,  by  beholding  a  new  career,  to  believe  that  they  pos- 
sessed a  new  order  of  talent.     Maire t  presented  himself 
on  the  stage  at  sixteen,  and  Rotrou  at  eighteen  years  of 
age.     Scudéry  wrote  in  G-ascon,'  and  boasted  of  his  igno- 
rance :  "  In  the  music  of  the  sciences,"  he  says,  "  I  sing 
only  by  nature.  ......  I  have  spent  more  years  in  the 

camp  than  hours  in  my  study,  and  used  more  matches  to 
fire  arquebuses  than  to  light  candles  ;  so  that  I  can  ar- 
range soldiers  better  than  words,  and  square  battalions 

'  Sorel,  "Bibliothèque  Française,"  p.  185. 

*  Some  say  it  was  Norman.     Scudéry  was  of  Frovençal  origin,  but  was 
bom  at  Havr*'.  whrro  hi.s  father  was  married. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  129 

better  than  I  can  round  periods."  '  The  stage  wa.s  just 
suited  to  Scudéry's  poetical  impertinence  :  in  dramatic 
literature  it  was  thought  allowable  to  dispense  with  care- 
fulness, and  even  correctness  of  style  ;  an  author  might 
mingle  at  his  pleasure  the  finical  with  the  bombastic,  or 
the  thoughtful  with  the  trivial  ;  and  extravagance  of  lan- 
guage was  surpassed  only  by  eccentricity  of  ideas.  Move- 
ment, which  had  been  almost  entirely  banished  from 
other  kinds  of  poetry,  seemed  to  be  the  only  merit  re- 
quired on  the  stage  ;  and  this  movement,  which  never 
was  allowed  to  originate  in  the  passions  of  the  soul,  was 
kept  up  by  an  accumulation  of  romantic  adventures  : 
abductions,  combats,  disguises,  recognitions,  infidelities 
— nothing  was  spared  to  give  animation  to  the  scene, 
and  to  prevent  the  spectator  from  noticing  the  dulness 
and  truthlessness  of  those  insipid  romances,  which  were 
almost  invariably  brought  on  the  stage  under  the  con- 
venient title  of  tragi-comedies  ;  the  tragic  element  in 
which  was  distinguished  only  by  a  more  singular  mix- 
ture of  triviality  and  bombast — the  comic,  by  a  stranger 
disregard  for  propriety — and  the  pastoral,  by  a  more  mon- 
strous employment  of  all  available  means. 

Amid  this  confusion,  what  became  of  the  rules  of 
Aristotle,  and  the  recollections  of  the  Grreeks  and  Romans  ? 
The  unities — observed  by  chance,  or  violated  without 
scruple,  prescribed  by  a  few  men  of  letters,  and  con- 
temned by  most  others — furnished  only  a  subject  of  dis- 
cussion, and  were  regarded  with  utter  indifference  by 
those  who  should  have  paid  most  attention  to  them.  The 
simplicity  of  ancient  or  historical  subjects  was  thought 
too  naked,  and  they  had  been  superseded  by  subjects  of 
pure  imagination,  in  which  there  was  nothing  to  trammel 
the   eccentricity    of   the    author's    conceptions,    and    by 

'  Preface  to  "  Lygdamon." 
I-* 


130  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

innumerable  imitations  of  the  Spanish  and  Italian  dramas, 
whither  some  men  of  taste  advised  the  poets  to  repair  in 
order  to  obtain  some  idea  of  the  regularity  necessary  to 
the  dramatic  poem.'  The  less  refined  public  gave  full 
permission  to  those  who  undertook  to  cater  for  their 
amusement  to  select  whatever  means  they  chose  to 
employ  ;  their  ignorant  favor  was  within  the  reach  of  all 
who  took  a  little  trouble  to  win  it  ;  talent  might  succeed 
in  gaining  it,  and  mediocrity  might  lay  claim  to  it  ;  no 
path  had  been  definitely  marked  out,  but  all  were  equally 
open,  when  Corneille  appeared. 

Pierre  Corneille,  born  at  Rouen  on  the  6th  of  June, 
1606,  of  a  family  distinguished  for  magisterial  services,' 
was  intended  for  the  bar,  and  was  brought  up  to  the 
severe  studies  of  that  learned  profession.^  He  felt  his 
genius,  however,  early  incline  toward  occupations  more 
in  unison  with  that  career  upon  which  he  was  urged  by  a 

'  Mairet  having  been  requested  by  Cardinal  de  la  Valette  to  compose  a 
pastoral  in  the  form  and  taste  of  the  Italian  school,  was  led  by  study  of  the 
Italian  dramatists  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  observing  the  unities,  which 
he  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  do  so  long  as  he  considered  them  incul- 
cated only  by  the  example  of  the  ancients.  He  composed  his  ''  Sylvanire" 
in  1625,  in  conformity  with  the  unities;  but  did  not  always  observe  them 
afterward. 

"  His  father  was  royal  advocate  at  the  marble  table  of  Normandy,  and 
special  master  of  the  waters  and  forests  in  the  viscounty  of  Rouen  ;  his 
mother,  Marthe  le  Pesant  de  Boisguilbert,  was  the  daughter  of  a  Maitrc  des 
Comptes.  In  the  Appendix  to  this  "  Life  of  Corneille"  will  be  found  some 
interesting  and  novel  details  regarding  his  father,  and  the  letters  of  nobility 
conferred  upon  him  by  Louis  XIII.  I  am  indebted  for  these  documents  to 
the  kindness  of  M.  Floquol,  than  whom  no  one  is  better  acquainted  with  the 
political  and  literary  history  of  Normandy.     See  Appendix  A. 

^  Ho  pursued  his  studios  at  the  Jesuits'  College  at  Rouen,  and  gained  a 
prize  either  in  IfilS  or  1G19.  "I  have  seen."  writes  M.  Floquet,  "in  the 
valuable  library  of  tlie  late  M.  Villenave,  the  volume  which  was  then  given 
to  Pierre  Corneille  :  it  is  a  folio  volume,  and  on  the  sides  of  the  book  are 
embossed  in  gold  the  arms  of  Aljdionse  d'Ornano,  lieutenant-general  and 
governor  of  Normandy  at  this  period,  who,  in  that  capacity,  had  paid  the 
expense  of  the  prizes  distributed  at  the  College.  A  notice  of  some  length, 
signed  by  the  princi[)al,  indicates  the  number  of  the  class,  and  the  reason 
why  this  reward  was  given  to  young  Corneille." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  131 

vocation  so  well  authenticated  by  the  whole  course  of  his 
life.  Love  dictated  his  first  verses,  and  to  love  has  he 
ascribed  the  glory  which  he  achieved  as  a  poet  : 

"  Charmé  de  deux  beaux  yeux,  mon  vers  charma  la  cour, 
Et  ce  que  j'ai  de  mieux,  je  le  dois  à  l'amour.'" 

It  will,  nevertheless,  be  difficult  to  believe  that  love  was 
the  principal  source  of  Corneille's  genius  ;  and,  in  order 
to  become  convinced  that  he  was  but  slightly  indebted  to 
this  sentiment  for  his  inspiration,  we  need  only  read  what 
he  says  elsewhere  of  his  first  love  :  ' 

"Soleils,  flambeaux,  attraits,  appas, 
Pleurs,  désespoirs,  tourments,  trépas, 
Tout  ce  petit  meuble  de  bouche 
Dont  un  amoureux  s'escarmouche, 
Je  savais  bien  m'en  escrimer  ; 
Par  là  je  m'appris  à  rimer." 

Love  taught  him  merely  to  rhyme,  and  to  string 
rhymes  together  was  a  very  small  matter  for  Corneille. 
But,  if  we  are  to  believe  Fontenelle,  love  taught  him 
something  more  than  this  :  "  Hardy  was  beginning  to 
grow  old,  and  his  death  would  have  made  a  great  breach 
in  the  drama,  when  a  slight  event  which  occurred  in  a 
respectable  family  in  a  provincial  town,  gave  him  an 
ilkistrious  successor.  A  young  man  took  one  of  his 
friends  to  see  a  girl  with  whom  he  was  in  love  ;  the  new- 
comer established  himself  upon  the  downfall  of  his  intro- 
ducer ;  the  pleasure  which  this  adventure  occasioned  him 
made  him  a  poet  ;  he  wrote  a  comedy  about  it — and 
behold  the  great  Corneille  !"* 

^  "  Excuse  à  Ariste,"  &c. 

'^  Fontenelle,  "  Histoire  du  Théâtre  Français,"  pp.  78,  79.  Such  is,  in 
reality,  the  subject  of  "Mélite,"  his  first  piece.  This  anecdote,  however, 
seems  to  be  contradicted  by  a  note  to  the  "  Excuse  à  Ariste,"  in  which  we 
are  informed  that  the  "  beautiful  eyes"  which  so  charmed  Corneille  belonged 
to  Mme.  de  Pont,  the  wife  of  a  Maître  des  Comptes  at  Rouen,  "whom  he 


132  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  starting-point  of  the  great 
Corneille  ;  but  it  contains  no  presage  of  his  future  glory. 
If,  in  his  earliest  works,  we  discover  some  traces  of  an 

had  known  as  quite  a  little  girl,  while  he  was  studying  in  the  Jesuit  College 
at  Rouen." 

"  Elle  eut  mes  premiers  vers,  elle  eut  mes  premiers  feux," 
says  Corneille  ;  and  he  repeats,  in  several  passages  of  the  same  piece,  that 
this  love  "  taught  hiiu  to  rhyme."  and  that  the  taste  of  his  mistress  for 
poetry, 

"  Le  fit  devenir  poëte  aussitôt  qu'amoureux." 

Soon  after  he  adds  : 

■'Je  ne  vois  rien  d'aimable  après  l'avoir  aimée  ; 
Aussi  n'aimai-je  plus,  et  nul  objet  vainqueur 
N'a  possédé  depuis  ma  veine  ni  mon  cœur." 
These  lines  were  written  in  1635  or  1636  ;  therefore  the  object  of  that 
sole  passion  which  occupied  the  first  ten  or  eleven  years  of  Corneille's  life, 
and  inspired  the  earliest  efforts  of  his  Muse,  was  of  necessity  his  Mélite,  if 
Mélite  ever  existed.  But  how  can  we  reconcile  this  early  liaison  between 
Corneille  when  a  student,  and  Mme.  de  Pont  when  quite  a  little  girl,  with 
the  manner  in  which  Fontenelle  introduces  Corneille  to  Mélite,  as  a  full- 
grown  lawyerl  (See  Fontenelle,  "Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  81,  in  the  third 
volume  of  his  Works.)  It  is  equally  difficult  to  harmonize  with  these 
various  circumstances  the  date  of  the  year  1625,  which  is  indicated  by 
Fontenelle  as  the  period  at  which  "  Mélite"  was  performed.  Corneille,  who 
was  born  in  1606,  would  then  have  been  only  nineteen  years  old,  and  could 
hardly  have  completed  his  studies  ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that,  before 
composing  his  piece,  he  had,  as  Fontenelle  assures  us,  already  appeared  at 
the  bar,  although  "without  success."  Other  works  place  the  date  in  1629. 
Fontenelle,  v^ho  wrote  seventy  years  afterward  (about  1700),  and  who  was 
horn  fifty  years  after  his  uncle  (in  1656),  may  only  have  found  confused  and 
doubtful  traditions  of  his  great  relative  in  a  family  by  whom  literary  anec- 
dotes of  Corneille's  life  were  probabl}'  considered  less  interesting  than  they 
were  afterward  thought  to  be  by  a  nephew  who  had  grown  rich  by  his  fame. 
Those  for  whom  they  would  have  possessed  the  deepest  interest,  Thomas 
Corneille  and  Mme.  de  Fontenelle,  a  woman,  it  is  said,  of  considerable 
talent,  were  born  long  after  their  elder  brother  (Thomas  was  born  in  1025), 
and  could  have  had  no  personal  knowledge  of  the  matter.  I  shall  have 
occasion  in  the  course  of  this  sketch  to  correct  several  manifest  errors  of 
Fontenelle  with  regard  to  tiio  facts  of  his  uncle's  life. 

M.  Taschcreau,  in  his  "  Histoire  de  la  Vie  et  des  Ouvrages  de  Corneille," 
(Paris,  1829),  has  also  called  in  question  the  anecdote  related  by  Fontenelle  ; 
and  in  a  paper  read  by  M.  E.  Gaillard  before  the  Academy  of  Rouen,  in 
1834,  which  cont.ains  some  curious  biographical  notices  of  Corneille,  1  find 
the  following  passage  :  "  M.  Taschcreau  has  fallen  into  error  regarding 
Mélite,  whom  he  treats  as  an  imaginary  being.  If  he  had  read  the  '  Moréri 
des  Normands,'  a  manuscript  in  the  Library  at  Caen,  he  would  have  seen 
that  Mclit.f.  is  the  anagram  of  Milct;  and  Abbé  Guyot,  formerly  Secretary 


riERRE  CORNEILLE.  133 

original  mind,  it  is  not  the  originality  of  genius,  but 
merely  of  good  sense  beginning  to  discern  the  absurdity 
of  that  which  it  condescended  to  imitate.  The  models 
set  up  for  Corneille's  imitation  were  adapted  neither  to 
direct,  nor  to  fetter  him.  "  I  had  no  guide,"  he  says,  in 
his  examination  of  '  Mélite,'  "  but  a  little  common  sense, 
together  with  the  examples  of  the  late  M.  Hardy,'  and  of 
a  few  moderns  who  were  then  beginning  to  appear,  but 
who  were  not  more  regular  than  he  was."  Consequently, 
to  use  his  own  expression,  "  '  Mélite'  was  not  written  in 
conformity  to  the  rules  ;  "  for,"  he  adds,  "  I  was  not  then 
aware  that  there  were  any  rules."  It  was  of  little  con- 
sequence for  him  to  know  them  ;  to  learn  how  to  confine 
within  twenty-four  hours  an  intrigue  which  Corneille  has 
extended  over  a  month,  was  then  a  progress  of  little  im- 
portance to  an  art  in  which  every  thing  still  remained  to 
be  created,  and  which  it  was  necessary  to  furnish  with 
well-selected  subjects,  and  true  and  passionate  feelings, 
before  thinking  of  laying  a  foundation,  in  the  void,  for 
forms  as  yet  of  no  utility. 

Reason,  however,  had  indicated  some  of  thèse  forms  to 
Corneille.  "  That  common  sense,"  he  says,  "which  was 
my  only  rule,  taught  me  the  use  of  unity  of  action  to  set 
four  lovers  at  variance  by  a  single  intrigue,  and  gave  me 

of  the  Puy  de  la  Conception,  at  Rouen,  affirms  that  Mile.  Milet  was  a  very- 
pretty  young  lady  of  our  town.  I  may  add  that  she  lived  at  Rouen,  in  the 
Rue  aux  Juifs,  No.  15.  This  fact  was  attested  to  me  by  M.  Domniey, 
formerly  Chief  Clerk  at  the  Chambre  des  Comptes,  a  man  who,  if  alive, 
would  now  be  120  years  old,  and  who  told  me  that  he  had  this  information 
from  some  very  old  ladies  who  used  to  live  in  that  house,  in  the  Rue  aux 
Juifs,  when  he  was  a  very  young  man.  The  existence  of  Mile.  Milet  is, 
moreover,  a  tradition  at  Rouen.  In  my  youth  I  have  heard  it  related  to 
octogenarians  of  the  highest  rank,  one  of  whom,  the  Chevalier  de  Maisons, 
was  the  friend  of  M.  de  Cideville."  "Précis  Analytique  des  Travaux  de 
l'Académie  de  Rouen  pendant  l'année  1834,"  pp.  165,  166. 

'  Hardy  was  dead  when  Corneille  wrote  his  examinations  ;  but  he  was 
alive  when  "  Mélite"  was  performed,  and  did  not  die  until  two  or  three  years 
afterward. 


134  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

sufficient  aversion  for  that  horrible  irregularity  which 
brought  Paris,  Rome,  and  Constantinople  upon  the  same 
stage,  to  make  me  reduce  mine  to  a  single  town.'"  But 
here  the  art  of  young  Corneille  comes  to  an  end  ;  here 
ceases  his  contribution  to  truth  of  representation  and 
probability  of  action.  Erastus,  enraged  against  Tircis 
for  having  supplanted  him  in  the  favor  of  his  mistress, 
writes  love-letters,  in  the  name  of  that  mistress,  to  Phi- 
lander, who  is  in  love  with  the  sister  of  Tircis.  Phi- 
lander's  vanity  does  not  allow  him  either  to  doubt  his 
good  fortune,  or  to  resist  it,  or  to  conceal  it  ;  and  this  is 
the  intrigue  which  sets  the  four  lovers  at  variance,  with- 
out either  of  them  attempting  to  obtain  from  each  other 
the  slightest  explanation.  Tircis  and  Mélite,  the  hero 
and  heroine  of  the  piece,  are  ready  to  die  of  grief,  without 
inquiring  its  cause.  Erastus  believes  they  are  dead,  is 
seized  with  remorse,  and  becomes  mad.  In  his  madness 
he  imagines  that  he  is  descending  to  Tartarus  to  rescue 
them,  and  expresses  his  determination,  if  Pluto  Avill  not 
give  them  up,  to  carry  off  Proserpine.  He  jumps  upon 
the  shoulders  of  a  neighbor,  whom  he  takes  for  Charon, 
and  belabors  him  unmercifully,  in  order  to  force  him  to 
give  him  a  passage  in  his  boat.  He  afterward  meets 
Philander,  whom  he  takes  for  Minos,  and  confesses  to  him 
the  trick  of  which  he  had  been  guilty.  This  was  the 
kind  of  comedy  which  Corneille,  "  though  condemning  it 
in  his  heart,"*  employed  as  "  a  theatrical  ornament  which 
never  failed  to  please,  and  frequently  gained  admira- 
tion,"^ Mélite,  to  whom  Tircis  speaks  of  the  love  which 
she  inspires,  replies  : 

"  Jo  nc  reçois  d'amour  et  n'en  donne  à  personne  : 
Le  moyen  de  donner  ce  q^ue  je  n'eus  jamais  V 


Examination  of  '  Mélite."  '  Ibid.  '  Ibid. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  135 

Instead  of  love,  she  is  willing  "  to  lend  to  Erastus  the 
coldness"  of  her  soul  ;  but  coldness  melts  away  when  she 
is  present  : 

"  Et  vous  n'en  conservez  que  faute  de  vous  voir  !" 

Erastus  gallantly  replies  ;  to  which  Mélite,  who  is  de- 
termined to  have  the  last  word,  immediately  answers — 

"Eh  quoi  !  tous  les  miroirs  ont-ils  de  fausses  glaces  1" 

Such  was  "  the  natural  style  which  truly  depicted  the 
conversation  of  respectable  persons"  ;  '  by  such  means 
comedy,  for  the  first  time  obtained  the  honor  of  exciting 
laughter  "  without  the  introduction  of  ridiculous  person- 
ages, such  as  jesters,  valets,  captains  and  doctors,  but 
simply  by  the  sportive  humor  of  persons  superior  in  rank 
to  those  represented  in  the  comedies  of  Plautus  and  Ter- 
ence."* As  regards  the  characters,  Tircis  might  bç  sub- 
stituted for  Erastus,  and  Erastus  for  Tircis,  without  any 
perceptible  difference.  A  gay,  but  rather  cowardly  lover, 
who  is  introduced  in  order  to  show  off  the  hero  of  the 
piece,  and  a  merry  and  careless  girl,  who  is  placed  in 
contrast  to  the  sensible  Mélite,  are  the  most  salient  char- 
acteristics of  this  comedy;  but  its  style,  "being  unex- 
ampled in  any  language,"  and  its  originality  and  merit, 
compelling  the  approbation  of  the  public,  who  had  at 
first  paid  little  attention  to  the  work  of  an  unknown 
poet,^  obtained  such  success  and  drew  such  crowds  that 
the  two  troops  of  comedians,  then  united  at  the  Hôtel 
de  Bourgogne  separated  once  more.  The  troop  of  the 
Marais,  resting  the  most  brilliant  hopes  upon  the  new 

'  Examination  of  "Mélite." 

2  Ibid. 

^  "  The  first  three  performances  together  were  not  so  well  attended  as 
the  least  of  those  which  took  place  during  the  same  winter." — Corneille, 
"  Epîtro  dédicatoire  de  Mélite." 


136  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

author  who  had  made  his  appearance  with  so  much  dis- 
tinction, resumed  their  former  habitation  ;'  and  old  Hardy, 
who  continued  connected  with  the  troop  which  his  labors 
had  supported,  frequently  had  occasion  to  acknowledge, 
at  all  events  when  the  profits  were  divided,  the  superior 
merits  of  his  young  rival.^ 

How,  then,  are  we  to  account  for  the  astonishing  suc- 
cess obtained  by  Corneille's  first  work  ?  Its  merits  were, 
a  superiority  of  art  and  intrigue  equalled  by  none  of  his 
contemporaries  ;  a  wisdom  of  reason  commensurate  with 
its  affluence  of  wit  ;  and  last,  though  not  least,  the  nov- 
elty of  a  first  glimmering  of  taste,  of  a  first  effort  toward 
truthfulness.  Its  style,  which  appears  to  us  so  very  un- 
natural, was,  nevertheless,  as  Corneille  informs  us,  the  lan- 
guage of  gallantry  and  the  common  conversation  of  polite 
society.  The  dialogue  in  "  Mélite"  could  not  but  appear 
simple  and  natural  in  comparison  with  that  in  "  Sylvie,'" 
"which  was  so  much  recited,"  says  Fontenelle,  "by 
our  fathers   and  mothers   in  their  pinafore  days,"*  and 

'  See  the  "  Histoire  de  la  Ville  de  Paris,"  book  xxix.  As  nearly  as  we 
can  gather  from  the  confused  details  which  have  reached  us  regarding  the 
theatres  of  this  period,  it  would  appear  that  the  comedians  of  the  Hôtel  de 
Bourgogne,  faithful  to  their  inheritance  of  the  Confrères  and  the  Enfants 
de  Sans-Soucy,  habitually  performed  farces,  and  that  the  actors  of  the  Thea- 
tre du  Marais  devoted  themselves  more  especially  to  comedy  and  tragedy. 
Mondory,  the  most  celebrated  tragic  actor  of  those  times,  was  leader  of  the 
troop  at  the  Marais.  The  taste  of  the  regular  spectators,  however,  by  ban- 
ishing farces,  placed  both  troops  at  last  upon  the  same  footing.  The  come- 
dians of  the  Hôtel  de  Bourgogne  were  frequently  recruited  by  actors  from 
the  troop  of  the  Marais,  who  were  transferred  therefrom  by  order  of  the  gov- 
ernment, probably  at  their  own  request.  Notwithstanding  these  losses,  the 
Marais  troop  maintained  its  position  until  1673,  when  it  was  united  to  that 
of  the  Palais  Royal,  a  third  troop  which  had  been  formed  under  the  auspices 
of  Cardinal  Richelieu. 

*  .It  would  appear  that,  besides  his  three  crowns  for  every  piece,  his  con- 
tract secured  him  a  share  in  the  profits  of  the  theatre.  On  receiving  his  share 
of  the  profits  of  the  performance  of  "  Mélite,"  he  used  to  say,  "  It's  a  good 
farce,"  perhaps  to  indicate  that  he  allowed  it  no  higher  merit. 

^  A  Pastoral,  by  Mairct. 

^  Fontenelle,  "  Histoire  du  Theatre  Français,"  p.  80. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  137 

which  is  entirely  composed  of  forty  or  fifty  distichs  of 
this  kind  : 

PHILEMON. 

"  Arrête,  mon  soleil  :  quoi  !  ma  longue  poursuite 
Ne  pourra  m'obtenir  le  bien  de  te  parler  1 

SYLVIE. 

C'est  en  vain  que  tu  veux  interrompre  ma  fuite  ; 
Si  je  suis  un  soleil,  je  dois  toujours  aller. 

PHILEMON. 

Tu  peux  bien  pour  le  moins,  avant  ma  sépulture, 
D'un  baiser  seulement  ma  douleur  apaiser. 

SYLVIE. 

Sans  perdre  en  même  temps  Tune  ou  l'autre  nature, 
Les  glaces  et  les  feux  ne  sauraient  se  baiser. 

PHILEMON. 

Oh  cœur  !  mais  bien  rocher,  toujours  couvert  d'orages,  * 

Où  mon  âme  se  perd  avec  trop  de  rigueur  ! 

SYLVIE. 

On  touche  le  rocher  où  l'on  fait  le  naufrage  ; 
Mais  jamais  ton  amour  ne  m'a  touché  le  cœur." 

However  careful  Corneille  may  have  been  to  conform 
to  this  deplorable  kind  of  wit,  a  correcter  reason  displayed 
itself  continually,  and,  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  his  efforts, 
in  his  work.  In  the  style  of  "  Mélite,"  also,  might  be 
perceived  a  kind  of  boldness  necessarily  unknown  to  those 
authors  who  were  so  proud  of  the  haste  and  negligence 
with  which  they  composed  their  dramatic  works.  No 
one  had  as  yet  introduced  that  tone  of  moderate  eleva- 
tion which  maintains  the  characters  of  a  play  in  the  same 
position  throughout,  and  is  equally  removed  from  vul- 
garity and  ridiculous  pomp.'     At  length,  excepting  only 


'  The  use  of  the  second  person  singular  which  so  much  shocked  Voltaire 
and  which  is  frequent  in  all  Corneille's  early  comedies,  was  probably  at  that 
time  not  an  impropriety,  and  was  less  an  indication  of  the  intimacy  of  two 
lovers,  than  of  a  sort  of  familiarity  which  was  allowable  with  persons  with 
regard  to  whom  it  was  not  thought  necessary  strictly  to  observe  the  forms. 
It  is  thus  used  more  frequently  by  women  than  by  men,  and  appears  to  be 
one  of  the  signs  of  that  superiority  which  a  woman  assumes  over  a  lover  of 


13S  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

in  his  fantastic  description  of  the  pagan  madness  of 
Erastus.'  Corneille  had  attained,  if  not  to  real  and  com- 
plete truth,  at  least  to  a  kind  of  relative  truthfulness,  on 
which  no  previous  writer  had  bestowed  a  thought.  In- 
stead of  figures  naturally  full  of  life  and  animation,  he 
sought  as  yet  merely  to  represent  the  artificial  figures  of 
contemporary  society  ;  but  he  had  felt  the  necessity  of 
taking  some  model,  and  while  the  authors  of  his  day  were 
as  incapable  of  imitation  as  of  invention,  he  had  at  least 
striven  to  copy  some  characteristics  of  the  world  beneath 
his  eyes. 

Of  these  rrierits,  most  of  which  were  negative,  and  the 
only  ones  by  which  we  can  explain  Corneille's  first  suc- 
cess, some  were  revealed  to  him  by  criticism.  Having 
come  to  Paris  "to  witness  the*  success  of  '  Mélite,'  "  he 
learned  "  that  its  action  was  not  included  within  twenty- 
four  hours  ;    and  this,"   he   says,   "  was   the  only  rule 

whose  affection  she  is  sure.  In  "  Cinna,"  Emilie  addresses  Cinna  in  the 
second  person  singular,  but  he  does  not  use  it  in  his  answers.  In  "  La 
Veuve,"  one  of  Corneille's  earliest  comedies,  Clarice  thees-and-thous  Philiste, 
who,  far  from  thinking  he  has  any  claim  upon  her,  has  not  even  ventured  to 
confess  his  love,  and  maintains  the  deepest  respect  in  his  language  toward 
her.  He  informs  us  that  she  is  of  higher  rank  than  himself,  and  this  is 
probably  the  cause  of  her  familiarity.  In  the  same  piece,  Chrysanthe,  an 
old  woman,  says  thee  and  thou  to  Geron,  a  kind  of  business  man,  who 
never  addresses  her  otherwise  than  as  you.  In  other  places  we  find  instances 
of  old  ladies  speaking  in  this  manner  to  their  servants.  Fontenelle  blames 
the  thceing-and-thouing  in  Corneille's  pieces  only  on  account  of  its  impo- 
liteness.    See  his  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  93. 

'  In  all  the  comedies  of  the  time  we  find  the  same  use  of  the  language  of 
Paganism  by  thoroughly  modern  personages.  Thus,  in  the  comedy  of  the 
"  Thuilleries,"  a  production  of  the  "  five  authors,"  the  intrigue  of  which 
actually  takes  place  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  the  lovers  tell  us  that 
they  met  in  the  temple,  whither  they  had  gone  to  adore  the  Gods  ;  and  Aglante 
relates  that  a  hermit  whom  he  had  consulted  as  to  whether  it  was  allowable 
to  marry  without  love,  spoke  to  him  of  love  as  the  Master  of  the  Gods,  and 
threatened  him  with  their  anger  if  he  dared  to  approach  his  altar  with  ir- 
reverence. At  the  same  time  his  uncle,  who  is  vexed  by  this  decision,  iron- 
ically calls  the  hermit  "  this  venerable  father,"  and  laughs  at  his  nephew 
because  he  can — 

"  Au  retour  d'Italie,  être  encor  scrupuleux." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  139 

known  at  that  period"  ;  '  although  authors  attached  lit- 
tle or  no  importance  to  it.  The  charge  of  irregularity, 
however  was  not  sufficient  to  console  them  for  the  suc- 
cess of  "  Mélite"  ;  they  blamed  it  for  its  deficiency  of 
events,  and  for  its  excessively  natural  style.  "I  learn- 
ed," says  Corneille  himself,  "that  those  of  the  craft  found 
fault  with  it  because  it  contained  few  effects,  and  be- 
cause its  style  was  too  familiar."  Fortunately  for  taste, 
Corneille  had  already  entered  the  lists  on  its  behalf.  Self- 
respect  came  to  the  aid  of  reason.  His  firmness  in  the 
defense  of  truth  rested  complacently  upon  the  success  of 
his  work.  "  To  justify  myself,"  he  says,  "by  a  sort  of 
bravado,  and  to  show  that  this  kind  of  drama  possessed 
the  same  theatrical  beauties,  I  undertook  to  compose  one 
regular  piece,  that  is  to  say,  extending  over  twenty-four 
hours  only,  full  of  incidents,  and  written  in  a  loftier  style, 
but  which  should  be  worth  absolutely  nothing — in  which 
I  completely  succeeded." 

If  Corneille's  sole  object  in  the  composition  of  "  Clitan- 
dre"  really  was  to  render  the  triumph  of  good  taste  more 
illustrious  by  a  display  of  bad  taste,  never  did  an  author 
sacrifice  himself  more  entirely  for  the  public  good.  A 
party  of  two  couples,  meeting  by  chance  at  the  same 
time  and  place,  in  consequence  of  a  double  project  of  as- 
sassination ;  the  frustration  of  these  projects  by  each 
other  ;  a  man  w^ho  attempts  to  violate  a  girl  upon  the 
stage,  and  the  girl  who  defends  herself  by  piercing  his 
eye  with  the  bodkin  from  her  hair  ;  combats,  disguises,  a 
tempest,  the  police,  a  prison — all  these  materials  did  Cor- 
neille laboriously  combine,  in  order  to  furnish  us  in 
"  Clitandre"  with  a  monstrous  drama,  worthy  of  the  pub- 
lic whom  it  was  intended  to  please — for  it  is  difficult  to 
suppose  that  Corneille  designed  solely  to  instruct  them. 

'  Examination  of  "  Clitandre." 


140  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

Perhaps  he  believed  this  himself  thirty  years  afterward, 
when  he  wrote  an  examination  of  this  work,  which 
he  then  so  heartily  disdained  :  our  present  sentiments 
strangely  modify  the  remembrance  of  our  past  feelings, 
and  one  of  the  most  common  effects  of  evidence,  when  we 
have  been  once  struck  by  it,  is  to  persuade  us  that  we 
always  were  of  that  opinion.  But  at  the  time  at  which 
"  Clitandre"  appeared,  thus  to  judge  and  sacrifice  himself 
was  above  the  taste  of  the  author  of  "  Mélite,"  and  be- 
yond the  courage  of  a  self-love  so  keenly  sensitive  regard- 
ing the  criticisms  which  had  been  passed  upon  his  work. 
In  the  preface  which  he  wrote  in  1632,  when  "  Clitan- 
dre" was  printed.  Corneille  admits  the  obscurity  which 
must  result  from  the  multiplicity  of  events  and  the  brev- 
ity of  the  dialogue  ;  but  he  boasts  "  of  having  preferred 
to  divert  the  eyes  rather  than  importune  the  ears,"  by 
bringing  upon  the  stage  "  what  the  ancients  would  have 
introduced  into  the  dialogue";  and  he  congratulates  him- 
self that,  in  adopting  the  rules,  "  he  has  culled  their  beau- 
ties, without  falling  into  those  inconveniences  which  the 
Greeks  and  Latins,  who  also  followed  them,  were  usually 
unable,  or  at  least  did  not  venture,  to  avoid."  His  dig- 
nity in  his  own  defense  is  not  the  pride  of  a  man  who  can 
dispense  with  the  approbation  of  the  public,  but  the  con- 
fidence of  an  author  who  is  certain  of  obtaining  it  what- 
ever means  he  may  use  to  request  it.  "  If  I  have  confi- 
ned this  piece,"  he  says,  "  within  the  rule  of  a  single  day, 
it  is  not  because  I  repent  of  not  having  pursued  the  same 
plan  in  '  Mélite,'  or  because  I  have  resolved  to  do  so  in 
future.  At  the  present  day,  some  persons  adore  this  rule, 
and  many  despise  it  ;  for  myself,  I  am  desirous  only  to 
show  that,  if  I  depart  from  it,  it  is  not  for  want  of  know- 
ing it."'  But  he  was  anxious  to  prove  himself  equal 
'  Preface  to  "  Clitandre." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  141 

in  attainments  to  his  contemporaries,  and  superior  to 
them  in  his  manner  of  employing  his  knowledge.  "  If 
any  one  should  remark  coincidences  in  my  verses,"  ho 
says,  "  let  him  not  suppose  them  to  he  thefts.  I  have 
not  willingly  horrowed  from  any  body,  and  I  have  al- 
ways believed  that,  however  fine  a  thought  may  be, 
you  buy  it  at  more  than  its  value  if  it  be  suspected 
that  you  have  taken  it  from  some  one  else  ;  so  that, 
in  the  state  in  which  I  lay  this  piece  before  the  public, 
I  think  nothing  will  be  found  in  it  in  common  with  most 
modern  writers,  except  the  little  vanity  which  I  display 
here.'" 

In  the  composition  of  "Clitandre,"  Corneille  had  not 
entirely  renounced  this  vanity  ;  the  pleasure  of  exhibiting 
his  superiority  to  his  rivals,  even  in  a  style  of  composition 
which  he  despised,  had  doubtless  stimulated  him  not  to 
leave  any  defects  "wittingly"  in  his  work,  excepting  those 
inseparable  from  the  style  itself,  which  he  could  not  bet- 
ter disparage  than  by  displaying  enough  talent  to  prove 
that,  if  the  piece  were  bad,  it  was  not  the  fault  of  the 
poet.  He  even  took  care  to  point  out  the  faults  which  he 
had  avoided  ;  and  thus  he  explains,  in  his  Preface,  why 
he  did  not  indicate  the  place  in  which  the  scene  is  laid. 
"I  leave,"  he  says,  "  the  locality  of  my  play  to  the  choice 
of  the  reader,  although  it  would  be  no  trouble  for  me  to 
name  it  here.  If  my  subject  be  true,  I  have  reasons 
for  not  mentioning  it  ;  if  it  is  a  fiction,  why  should  I, 
in  order  to  conform  to  I  don't  know  what  chorography, 
give  a  fillip  to  history,  assign  imaginary  princes  to 
a  country,  and  attribute  to  them  adventures  of  which 
there  is  no  record  in  the  chronicles  of  their  realm  ?" 
Even  in  his  irregularities.  Corneille  manifested  a  good 
sense  which  was  quite  unprecedented  among  his  contem- 
■  Preface  to  "  Clitandre." 


142  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

poraries  and  by  which  they  were  not  yet  in  a  condition 
to  profit. 

After  that  sally  of  humor  and  self-respect  which  indu- 
ced him  to  write  "  Clitandre,"  Corneille  no  longer  allowed 
the  taste  of  his  time  tc-  rule  solely  and  despotically  in  his 
works,  unless  it  were  without  his  knowledge  ;  he  prefer- 
red to  rely  upon  his  own  reflections,  and  upon  the  experi- 
ence which  he  was  daily  acquiring  of  theatrical  effects. 
The  hour  at  which  his  genius  was  to  awake  had,  never- 
theless, not  yet  arrived  ;    for  some  time  still,  he  will  grope 
painfully  for  his  way  amid  the  surrounding  darkness  ;  but 
every  effort  will  cast  a  ray  of  light  upon  his  path,  and  every 
step  will  be  a  step  in  advance.    Already  a  natural  feeling 
of  reserve  had  banished  from  Corneille's  works  that  ex- 
cessive license  which  was  scarcely  noticed  by  his  contem- 
poraries ;  for  an  unsuccessful  attempt  at  violation'  can 
not  be  regarded  as  an  indecency  upon  a  stage  on  which  a 
woman  was  represented  as  receiving  her  lover  into  her  bed, 
merely  recommending  him  to  be  discreet.     It  is  only  fair 
to  say  that  after  this  piece  of  advice  had  been  given,  the 
curtain  fell.     If  the  custom  of  his  time  led  Corneille  to  in- 
troduce an  objectionable  scene  into  "  Clitandre,"  and  to 
indulge  in  some  questionable   pleasantries  in  "Mélite," 
they  had  so  little  real  connection  with  these  pieces,  that 
he  had  no  difficulty  in  omitting  them  from  the  printed 
versions,  and  afterward  he  did  not  find  it  necessary  to 
make  any  further  curtailments.     In  his  early  days,  too, 
he  had  composed  some  rather   gay   poems,   which  have 
never  been  inserted  in  the  collected  edition  of  his  works. 
And  at  the  same  time  that  he  banished  from  the  stage 
these  singular  itianifestations  of  illegitimate  or  unbridled 
passion,  he  began  to  infuse  a  little  more  truthfulness  into 
the  language  of  honorable  affection,  and  to  divorce  it  from 

'   111  "  Clitandre." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  143 

the  jargon  of  gallantry.  In  the  "  Veuve,"  a  mother  in- 
quiring about  the  progress  which  her  daughter  is  making 
in  the  heart  of  a  young  man  whom  she  wishes  her  to 
marry,  expresses  her  dissatisfaction  at  the  tone  of  his  dec- 
larations, which  lay  all  the  divinities  of  Olympus  under 
contribution  : 

"  Ses  yeux,  à  son  avis,  sont  autant  de  soleils, 
L'enflure  de  son  sein  un  double  petit  monde  : 
C'est  le  seul  ornement  de  la  machine  ronde. 
L'amour  à  ses  regards  allume  son  flambeau. 
Et  souvent  pour  la  voir  il  ôte  son  bandeau. 
Diane  n'eut  jamais  une  si  belle  taille  ; 
Auprès  d'elle  Vénus  ne  serait  rien  qui  vaille  ; 
Ce  ne  sont  rien  que  lys  et  roses  que  son  teint." 

The  anxious  mother  considers  this  the  language  of  pleas- 
antry ;  but  her  agent  reassures  her  : 

"  C'est  un  homme  tout  neuf,  que  voulez-vous  qu'il  fasse 
Il  dit  ce  qu'il  a  lu." 

Corneille  clearly  perceived  that  it  was  not  in  books, 
nor  even  in  the  love-poems  of  his  time,  that  he  must 
seek  a  language  capable  of  awakening,  within  the  breasts 
of  hit?  audience,  those  sentiments  which  he  was  desirous 
to  describe.  In  the  "  Galerie  du  Palais,"  two  young 
people  standing  in  front  of  a  bookseller's  shop,  reason 
upon  comedy,  and  the  manner  in  which  love  is  treated 
therein  : 


"  11  n'en  faut  point  douter,  l'amour  a  des  tendresses 
Que  nons  n'apprenons  point  qu'auprès  de  nos  maîtresses  ; 
Tant  de  sortes  d'appas,  de  doux  saisissements. 
D'agréables  langueurs  et  de  ravissements, 
Jusques  où  d'un  bel  œil  peut  s'étendre  l'empire. 
Et  mille  autres  secrets  que  l'on  ne  saurait  dire. 
Quoique  tous  nos  rimeurs  en  mettent  par  écrit, 
Ne  se  surent  jamais  par  un  effort  d'esprit, 
Et  je  n'ai  jamais  vu  de  cervelles  bien  faites 
Qui  traitassent  l'amour  comme  font  les  poètes  : 


144  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

C'est  tout  un  autre  jeu.     Le  style  d'un  sonnet 

Est  fort  extravagant  dedans  un  cabinet  ; 

II  y  faut  bien  louer  la  beauté  qu'on  adore, 

Sans  mépriser  Vénus,  sans  médire  de  Flore  ; 

Sans  que  l'éclat  des  lys,  des  roses,  d'un  beau  jour, 

Ait  rien  à  démêler  avecque  notre  amour. 

O  pauvre  Comédie  !   objet  de  tant  de  peines. 

Si  tu  n'es  qu'un  portrait  des  actions  humaines, 

On  te  tire  souvent  sur  un  original, 

A  qui,  pour  dire  vrai,  tu  ressembles  fort  mal." 

The  natural  good  sense,  by  which  Corneille  was  distin- 
guished, is  sometimes  productive  of  singular  effects  by 
its  mixture  with  those  false  habits  from  the  influence  of 
which  the  poet  had  not  yet  escaped.  In  the  "  Place 
Koyale,"  his  fifth  comedy,  a  young  girl,  unworthily 
treated  by  the  man  she  loves,  and  by  whom  she  believed 
she  was  loved,  bursts  into  anger  against  him  ;  and  when 
her  perfidious  admirer,  who  is  anxious  to  drive  her  to 
extremities,  insolently  presents  her  with  a  mirror  that 
she  may  behold  therein  the  reasons  for  his  indifference, 
she  exclaims  : 

"  S'il  me  dit  des  défauts  autant  ou  plus  que  toi. 
Déloyal,  pour  le  moins  il  n'en  dit  rien  qu'à  moi  : 
C'est  dedans  son  cristal  que  je  les  étudie  ; 
Mais  après  il  s'en  tait,  et  moi  j'y  remédie  ; 
Il  m'en  donne  un  avis  sans  me  les  reprocher, 
Et  me  les  découvrant,  il  m'aide  à  les  cacher." 

To  this  very  ill-timed  outbreak,  who  would  not  answer 
in  the  words  of  Alidor,  her  false  lover  : 

"  Vous  êtes  en  colère,  et  vous  dites  des  pointes  !" 

This  criticism  is  so  just,  that  we  are  surprised  that  the 
good  sense  which  dictated  it  to  the  poet  did  not  preserve 
him  from  incurring  it  ;  but  the  first  step  in  advance  is 
to  perceive  the  truth  ;  the  second,  and  most  difficult,  is 
to  obey  it. 

In  the  conduct  of  hia  pieces,  Corneille's  progress  was 
inore  sure  and   rapid.     The  plot,  being  arranged  with 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  145 

greater  care  and  skill,  fastens  upon  the  ciiricjsity  ;  and 
all  the  characters  present  themselves  with  a  marked 
physiognomy  which  distinguishes  them  from  each  other. 
These  distinctive  features  are,  in  truth,  more  the  result 
of  fancies  of  the  imagination  than  of  natural  disposi- 
tions and  real  varieties  of  character.  An  Alidor  wishes 
to  desert  his  mistress  because  she  is  so  perfect  and  so 
tender  that  she  gives  him  no  cause  for  complaint  to  just- 
ify him  in  abandoning  her^  and  because  he  loves  her 
too  much  to  be  master  of  his  own  liberty,  when  she  is 
near.  A  Célidie*  takes  a  sudden  liking  for  a  new  comer, 
and  in  order  to  gratify  her  taste,  strives  to  banish  the 
feelings  which  speak  within  her  breast  on  behalf  of  a 
faithful  lover,  to  whom  she  has  plighted  her  troth.  These 
various  whimsies  are  often  rendered  with  a  vivacity 
which  somewhat  diminishes  their  absurdity.  Corneille's 
mind  enlarged  daily,  but  he  had  not  yet  discovered  the 
legitimate  and  great  use  of  his  increasing  powers  ;  instead 
of  turning  his  attention  to  that  inexhaustible  source,  the 
observation  of  nature,  he  wasted  his  strength  in  efforts 
to  make  the  best  of  the  barren  field  which  he  had  chosen. 
He  daily  actjuired  greater  industry,  but  his  art  remained 
stationary  at  nearly  the  same  point  ;  and  Corneille  had 
as  yet  succeeded  only  in  showing  what  he  could  do  in  a 
style  of  composition  in  which  excellence  could  be  at- 
tained by  no  one. 

Six  works,'  the  fruits  of  his  earliest  labors,  had  laid 
the  basis  of  his  fortune  and  established  his  reputation. 
The  favor  of  Cardinal  Richelieu  had  not  overlooked  his 
rising  genius,  and  Corneille  shared  with  CoUetet  and 
Bois-Robert  the  honor  of  working,  under  the  orders,  su- 

'  In  the  "  Galerie  du  Palais." 

-  These  were,  "Mélite,"  in  1629  ;  "Clitandre,"  in  1632;  the  "Veuve," 
in  1633;  the  "Galerie  du  Palais"  and  the  "Suivante,"  in  1634;  and  the 
"  Place  Royale,"  in  1635. 


146  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

pervision,  and  direction  of  his  Eminence,  at  those  pieces 
which  were  laboriously  brought  into  being  by  the  will  of 
a  minister,  and  the  talents  of  five  authors,'  Corneille 
was  still  regarded  by  them  merely  as  one  of  the  part- 
ners in  that  literary  glory  which  was  common  to  them 
all:  satisfied  with  their  possession  of  bad  taste,  they 
were  far  from  anticipating  that  revolution  which  was 
soon  to  overthrow  its  empire  and  their  own. 

This  revolution  was  not  inaugurated  by  Corneille.  It 
is  difficult,  at  the  present  day,  to  divine  what  lucky 
chance  dictated  Mairet's  "  Sophonisbe,"  the  only  one  of 
his  pieces  in  which  he  rises  at  all  superior  to  the  taste  of 
his  times.  Its  merits  taught  nothing  to  its  author,  to 
whom  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  piece  of  good  fortune  ; 
but  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  it  revealed  to  Corneille 
the  powers  of  his  own  genius.  "  Sophonisbe"  appeared 
in  1633.  Corneille,  then  known  only  as  a  comic  poet,^ 
not  even  knowing  himself  in  any  other  character,  and 
incapable  of  discerning  tragedy  amid  that  accumulated 
heap  of  whimsical  and  puerile  inventions  which  he  had, 
as  it  were  in  spite  of  himself,  imitated  in  "  Clitandre" 
— Corneille  suddenly  learned  that  it  was  possible  for  an- 
other kind  of  tragedy  to  exist.  In  the  midst  of  that  comic 
triviality  from  which  Mairet  was  unable  to  free  either 
his  plot,  or  the  tone  of  his  characters.  Corneille  per- 
ceived that  gi'cat  interests  were  treated  of,  and  many 
feelings  depicted  with  considerable  power.  The  sensitive 
chord  had  been  touched  ;  his  fine  native  faculties,  placed 
far  above  the  circle  within  which  he  was  confined  by 

'  These  five  authors  were  L'Etoile,  Colletet,  Boié-Robort,  Rotrou,  and 
Corneille,  who,  accordinfr  to  Voltaire,  was  "  rather  subordinate  to  the  others, 
who  exceeded  liini  in  fortune  or  in  favor,"  and  who  were  probably  more 
docile  in  a  work  in  whic.li  it  was  necessary  to  take  care  not  to  display  either 
originality  or  indepen<lciice. 

*  Mairet  addressed  to  him,  on  the  appearance  of  his  "  Veuve,"  some 
lines  headed — "  A  Monsieur  Corneille,  poète  comique." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  147 

habit,  awoke  and  demanded  their  manifestation.  Hence- 
forward he  resolved  to  seek  the  subjects  of  his  pictures 
beyond  this  limited  sphere  :  he  turned  his  eyes  toward 
antiquity  ;  Seneca  presented  himself,  and  in  1635,  "  Mé- 
dée"  appeared. 

"  Souverains  protecteurs  des  lois  de  l'Hyménée, 
Dieux  garants  de  la  foi  que  Jason  m'a  donnée  ! 
Vous  qu'il  prit  à  témoin  d'une  immortelle  ardeur, 
Quand  par  un  faux  serment  il  vainquit  ma  pudeur  !"  ' 

."  These  lines,"  says  Voltaire,  "  announce  the  advent  of 
Corneille."'  They  did  more — ^they  inaugurated  tragedy 
in  France  :  the  tragic  Muse  had  at  length  appeared  to 
Corneille  ;  and  her  features,  though  still  roughly  sketched 
out,  could  no  longer  be  mistaken.  Neither  the  ridiculous 
love  of  old  Egeus,  nor  the  puerile  desire  manifested  by 
Creusa  to  possess  Medea's  robe,  nor  the  frequently  ignoble 
style  of  the  time,  nor  the  absence  of  art  discernible 
throughout  the  piece,  will  deter  from  a  perusal  of  "  Mé- 
dée"  any  person  who  has  had  the  courage  to  prepare  for 
it  by  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the  drama  of  that  period. 
On  coming  to  this  composition  it  seems  as  though,  after 
having  long  wandered  without  object,  compass,  or  hope, 
we  had  at  last  disembarked  upon  firm  grotmd,  from 
whence  we  can  perceive,  in  the  distance,  a  fertile  and 
luxuriant  country.  Imagination  and  reflection  appear  at 
last  applied  to  objects  worthy  of  their  notice  ;  im]x>rtant 
feelings  assume  the  place  of  childish  mental  amusements, 
and  Corneille  already  manifests  his  wondrous  powers  of 
expression.  We  already  perceive  in  Medea's  "  Moi,"  so  far 
superior  to  Seneca's  "  Medea  superest,"  an  example  of 
.that  energetic  conciseness  to  which  he  could  reduce  the 
expression  of  the  loftiest  and  most  sublime  sentiments. 

'   Corneille  "  Médée,"  act  i.  scene  4. 
*  Voltaire,  "  Commentaires." 


148  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

In  the  following  lines,  which  he  has  not  imitated  from 
the  Latin  tragedian — 

"Me  peut-il  bien  quitter  après  tant  de  bienfaits  1 
M'ose-t-il  bien  quitter  après  tant  de  forfaits  1" 

we  are  struck  by  the  force  and  depth  of  thought  that  he 
can  include  in  the  simplest  expressions  ;  and,  in  that 
scene  in  which  Medea  discusses  with  Creon  the  reasons 
which  he  may  have  for  expelling  her  from  his  dominions, 
we  acknowledge  the  presence  of  a  powerful  and  serious 
reason,  not  often  met  with  in  the  poetry  of  that  time,  and 
which  gained  for  Corneille  this  eulogy  from  the  English 
poet.  Waller  :  "  The  others  make  plenty  of  verses,  but 
Corneille  is  the  only  one  who  can  think  !"  Even  thus 
early  he  displayed  that  close  and  rigorous  dialectics,  which 
the  recollection  of  his  original  studies,  as  much  perhaps 
as  the  spirit  of  his  time,  caused  too  frequently  to  degen- 
erate into  subtilties,  but  which,  whenever  it  struck  fully, 
dealt  irresistible  blows. 

It  is  of  little  importance  to  inquire  whether  Corneille, 
in  "  Médée,"  borrowed  from  Seneca  or  not  ;  for  more  than 
a  century,  his  predecessors  and  contemporaries  had  not 
been  wanting  in  models.  In  a  translation  of  Seneca's 
"  Agamemnon,"  published  by  Rolland  Brisset,  less  than 
fifty  years  before,  Clytemnestra  called  Electra  a  hussy  ; 
and  this  line  of  Trissino's  "  Sofonisba," 

"  E  rimirando  lui,  pcnso  a  me  stesso." 

was,  in  1583,  about  the  same  period,  thus  translated  by 
Claude  Mermet, 

"  En  voyant  «a  ruine  ot  perte  non  pareille, 
Bien  m'advisc  qu'autant  m'en  peut  pendre  à  l'oreille." 

To  raise  to  the  elevation  of  noble  sentiments,  great  in- 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  149 

terests,  and  lofty  thoughts  a  poetical  language  which  had 
never  had  to  express  any  thing  but  tender  or  natural  f(îel- 
ings  and  ingenious  or  delicate  ideas,  was  an  achievement 
which  Ronsard  had  commenced  in  reference  to  general 
poetry  ;  and  this  task  Corneille  first  undertook  for  dra- 
matic poetry,  which,  though  regarded  as  a  more  exact  rep- 
resentation of  nature,  imitated  her  only  in  those  grosser 
forms  in  which  she  sometimes  appeared  amidst  a  state  of 
society  still  sadly  deficient  in  delicacy  and  respect  for  pro- 
priety. It  was  a  matter  of  little  consequence  whether  an 
idea  belonged  originally  to  Corneille  or  to  Seneca  ;  but  it 
was  essential  that  that  idea,  whoever  its  original  inventor 
might  have  been,  should  not  be  robbed  of  all  nobleness 
and  gravity  by  expressions  which  conveyed  to  the  mind 
none  but  the  most  ridiculous  images  ;'  it  was  essential 
that  details  of  the  most  puerile  familiarity'  should  not  be 
allowed  to  occupy  a  stage  destined  for  the  exhibition  of 
higher  interests  ;  it  was  essential  that  personages  sup- 
posed to  move  in  the  highest  circles  of  society,  and  to  be 
actuated  by  mighty  passions  or  important  designs,  should 
not  use  language  similar  to  that  employed  by  the  vulgar 
herd  in  its  brutal  rage  f  in  a  word,  it  was  essential,  by 

'  In  Mairct's  "  Sylvie,"  a  prince,  in  despair  at  the  death  of  his  mistress, 
whom  he  deplores  in  a  most  tragic  tone,  speaks  of  his  heart  as  a  place — 
"  Où  l'amour  avait  fait  son  plus  beau  cabinet." 
^  In  Scudér-ifs  "  Didon,"  written  in  1636,  after  ^neas  and  Dido,  being 
forced  by  a  storm  to  take  refuge  in  a  grotto,  have  given  each  other  proofs 
of  their  mutual  love,  ^neas  advances  on  the  stage  to  look  at  the  weather^ 
and  says  to  the  Queen,  who  had  remained  in  the  grotto  : 

"  Madame,  il  ne  pleut  plus  ;  votre  Majesté  sorte."  " 

Then,  being  requested  by  her  to  climb  upon  a  rock  to  summon  her  sister 
and  suite  to  join  them,  he  shouts  out  : 

"  Hola  !  hi  !   l'on  répond  ;  la  voix  est  déjà  proche. 

Hola  ! .  hi  !  la  voicy  !" 

^  Syphax,  in  Mairet's  "  Sophonisbe,"  calls  his  wife  impudent  and  brazen- 
faced. It  is  true  that  she  deserved  both  epithets  ;  but  they  are  rather  be- 
neath the  dignity  of  tragedy.         .,'_•',-'     ^   >  •'  ■       .    . 


f50  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

propriety,  precision,  and  careful  choice  of  terms,  to  estab- 
lish, between  the  style  and  the  subject,  a  harmony  which 
had  previously  been  utterly  unknown.  This  was  a  lesson 
which  neither  Seneca  nor  any  other  poet  could  teach  Cor- 
neille. His  genius  alone  raised  him  to  a  level  with  lofty 
thoughts,  and  he  expressed  them,  as  he  had  conceived 
them,  in  all  their  grandeur  and  sublimity. 

"After  writing  '  Médée,'  "  says  Fontenelle,  "  Corneille 
fell  back  again  into  comedy;  and,  if  I  may  venture  to 
say  what  I  think,  the  fall  was  great.'"  I  shall  therefore 
say  nothing  of  the  "  Illusion  Comique,"  the  last  produc- 
tion of  what  we  may  call  Corneille's  youth,  in  which, 
taking  leave  of  that  fantastic  taste  which  he  was  soon  to 
annihilate,  he  gave  himself  up  to  its  vagaries  with  a 
recklessness  which  might  be  charged  with  negligence,  if 
Corneille's  anxiety  for  success  had  ever  allowed  him  to 
be  negligent.  This  is  the  only  one  of  his  pieces  into 
which  he  has  introduced  the  "  Matamore,"  a  principal 
character  in  the  comedies  of  the  time,  borrowed  from  the 
Spanish  drama,  as  the  name  indicates,*  and  whose  com- 
icality consists  in  bragging  of  the  most  extravagant 
achievements  while  giving  continual  proofs  of  the  basest 
cowardice.  The  amorous  conquests  of  the  Matafnore  are 
on  a  par  with  his  warlike  exploits  ;  Corneille's  hero  once 
delayed  the  dawn  of  day — Aurora  was  nowhere  to  be 
found,  because,  he  says,  she  had  gone — 

"  Au  milieu  de  ma  chambre  à  m'offrir  ses  beautés." 

Scarron  describes   a  hero  of  the  same   kind,  who,   for 
pastime,  had — 

" Roué  la  fortune, 

Ecorché  le  hasard  et  brûlé  le  malheur." 

After  the  production  of  "  Médée,"  such  eccentricities 

'   Fontenelle,  "Vie  de  Corneille,"  vol.  iii.  p.  94. 
*  "  Canitan  Mata-moros,"  Captain  Moor-killcr. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  151 

were  no  longer  allowable  in  Corneille;  and  the  "Illusion 
Comique"  would  not  he  deserving  of  mention,  if,  by  a 
singular  coincidence,  the  date  of  its  first  performance' 
did  not  justify  us  in  supposing  that,  even  while  his 
humor  was  taking  such  fantastic  flights.  Corneille  was 
already  busy  with  the  "  Cid." 

The  genius  of  Corneille  had  at  length  discovered  its 
true  vocation  ;  but,  timid  and  modest  almost  to  humility, 
although  inwardly  conscious  of  his  powers,  he  did  not 
yet  venture  to  rely  upon  himself  alone.  Before  bringing 
new  beauties  to  light,  he  had  need,  not  of  a  guide  to 
direct  him,  but  of  an  authority  upon  which  he  could  fall 
back  for  support:  and  he  resorted  to  imitation,  not  to 
reinforce  his  owti  strength,  but  to  obtain  a  pledge  for  his 
success.  The  Court  had  brought  into  fashion  the  study 
of  the  Spanish  language  and  literature,  and  men  of  taste 
had  discovered  therein  beauties  which  we  were  still  far 
from  having  attained.  M.  de  Châlon,  who  had  been 
secretary  to  the  Q,ueen-mother,  Marie  de  Medici,  had 
retired,  in  his  old  age,  to  Rouen.  Corneille,  emboldened 
by  the  success  of  his  first  pieces,  called  upon  him  : 
"Sir,"  said  the  old  courtier  to  him,  after  having  praised 
him  for  his  wit  and  talents,  "the  pursuit  of  comedy, 
which  you  have  embraced,  can  only  bring  you  fleeting 
renown  ;  you  will  find,  in  the  Spanish  authors,  subjects 
which,  if  treated  according  to  our  taste,  by  such  hands 
as  yours,  will  produce  immense  effect.  Learn  their  lan- 
guage; it  is  easy.  I  will  teach  you  all  I  know  of  it,  and 
until  you  are  competent  to  read  it  yourself,  I  will  trans- 
late for  you  some  passages  from  Guillermo  de  Castro."^ 
Whether  Corneille  was  indebted  to  himself  or  to  his  old 

'  During  the  year  1635. 

^  This  anecdote  was  related  by  Père  Tournemine,  one  of  Corncille"s 

tutors  at  the  Jesuit  College  at  Rouen.  See  the  "Recherches  sur  les 
Théâtres  de  la  France,"  vol.  ii.  p.  157.  .  ■  <-        ■     . 


152  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

friend  for  the  choice  of  the  subject  of  the  "  Cid,"  the 
"  Cid"  soon  belonged  to  himself  alone. 

The  success  of  the  "  Cid,"  in  1636,  constitutes  an 
era  in  our  dramatic  history  ;  it  is  not  necessary  now  to 
explain  the  causes  of  the  brilliant  reception  which  it 
obtained.  "  Before  the  production  of  Corneille's  '  Cid,'" 
says  Voltaire,  "men  were  unacquainted  with  that  con- 
flict of  passions  which  rends  the  heart,  and  in  the 
presence  of  which  all  other  beauties  of  art  are  dull  and 
inanimate."  Neither  passion,  nor  duty,  nor  tenderness, 
nor  magnanimity  had  previously  been  introduced  upon 
the  stage  ;  and  now,  love  and  honor,  as  they  may  be  con- 
ceived by  the  most  exalted  imagination,  appeared  sud- 
denly, and  for  the  first  time,  in  all  their  glory,  before  a 
public  by  whom  honor  was  considered  the  first  of  virtues, 
and  love  the  chief  business  of  life.  "  Their  enthusiasm 
M'as  carried  to  the  greatest  transports  ;  they  could  never 
grow  tired  of  beholding  the  piece  ;  nothing  else  was 
talked  of  in  society  ;  every  body  knew  some  part  of  it  by 
heart  ;  children  committed  it  to  memory  ;  and  in  some 
parts  of  France  it  passed  into  a  proverb: — That  is  as 
fine  as  the  CidP"^ 

Although  carried  away  at  first  in  the  general  stream, 
astounded  at  his  remarkable  success,  and  reduced  to 
silence  by  their  amazement,  Corneille's  rivals  soon  re- 
gained breath,  and  their  first  sign  of  life  was  an  act  of 
resistance  against  the  torrent  which  threatened  to  sweep 
them  into  annihilation.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation 
},'ave  unity  to  their  efforts,  and,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Rotrou,  the  insurrection  was  general.  A  powerful  aux- 
iliary  undertook  to  support  and  direct  their  movements. 

At  the  distance  at  which  wc  stand  from  these  events, 
it  is  difficult  to  assign  any  cause  for  Cardinal  Richelieu's 

'   Prii.tsn»,  "  Histoire  ilc  l'AccTiIrmic  Française,"  p.  186 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  153 

violent  participation  in  this  struggle  against  public  opin- 
ion. Of  all  the  motives  which  have  been  ascribed  to 
him,  the  least  probable  is  that  ridiculous  jealously  which 
it  is  said  that  the  minister  entertained  against  the  poet 
who  labored  in  his  service.  The  literary  self-love  of 
Richelieu  was  certainly  very  susceptible,  but  his  vanity 
as  a  nobleman  must  have  served  as  a  counterpoise  to  it  ; 
and  a  poetical  prime  minister  could  not  possibly  have 
felt  any  idea  of  emulation,  nor  consequently  of  jealousy, 
for  a  mere  professional  poet.  That  "vast  ambition"  of 
which  Fontenelle  speaks,'  and  which  could  so  easily  re- 
duce itself  to  the  dimensions  of  the  smallest  objects,  was 
according  to  all  appearance,  the  ambition  of  power  rather 
than  a  craving  after  glory.  The  suffrages  of  public  opin- 
ion lose  much  of  their  value  in  the  eyes  of  men  who  are 
raised  above  its  censure  ;  and  a  powerful  minister  feels 
great  inclination  to  believe  that  obedience  is  approval. 

Corneille  was,  however,  unacquainted  with  that  art 
which  is  so  necessary  to  render  obedience  flattering.  "  At 
the  end  of  1635,  a  year  before  the  performance  of  the 
'  Cid,'  the  Cardinal  had  given  in  the  Palais-Cardinal,  now 
called  the  Palais-Royal,  the  comedy  of  the  '  Thuilleries,' 
all  the  scenes  of  which  he  had  himself  arranged.  Cor- 
neille, who  was  more  docile  to  his  genius  than  subservient 
to  the  will  of  a  prime  minister,  thought  it  necessary  to 
make  some  alteration  in  the  third  act,  which  had  been 
intrusted  to  him.  This  estimable  liberty  was  ascribed  to 
false  motives  by  two  of  his  colleagues,  and  gave  great 
ofl'ense  to  the  Cardinal,  who  told  him  that  he  must  have 
an  esprit  de  suite,  by  which  he  meant  that  submission 
which  blindly  obeys  the  orders  of  superiors.'"     Whatever 

'  Fontenelle,  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  97. 

^  Voltaire's  Preface  to  the  "  Cid."  He  adds  that  "  this  anecdote  was 
well  known  to  the  last  princes  of  the  house  of  Vendôme,  the  grandsons  of 


154  LIFE  AND   WRITINGS  OF 

meaning  may  be  ascribed  to  words  spoken  in  an  angry 
moment,  the  disposition  which  had  dictated  them  was 
not  likely  to  be  mollified  by  such  a  success  as  the  "  Cid" 
had  obtained  without  the  orders  of  the  minister.  There  is 
even  reason  to  believe  that,  before  achieving  this  insolent 
success,  Corneille  had  seen  marks  of  preference  bestowed 
upon  his  associates,  which  he  had  disregarded  ;  and  to 
fill  up  the  measure  of  his  offenses  he  seemed  to  boast  of 
not  having  obtained  them  : 

"  Mon  travail  sans  appui  monte  sur  le  théâtre. 
Par  d'illustres  avis  je  n'éblouis  personne. 
Je  ne  dois  qu'à  moi  seul  toute  ma  renommée.'" 

These  lines  he  printed  in  1636,  between  the  appearance 
of  "  Médée"  and  that  of  the  "  Cid."  This  was  doubtless 
a  part  of  his  crime.  Astonished  that  any  one  should  con- 
sider himself  independent,  and  indignant  that  he  should 
venture  to  declare  it,  Richelieu  believed  himself  set  at 
defiance.  The  enemies  of  Corneille,  says  Voltaire,  "  his 
rivals  in  the  pursuit  of  glory  and  favor,  had  described  him 
as  an  upstart  spirit  who  ventured  to  brave  the  first  min- 
ister, and  who  looked  with  contempt  not  only  upon  their 
works,  but  also  upon  the  taste  of  their  protector."  They 
did  not  neglect  this  opportunity  of  satisfying  their  jea- 
lousy by  the  basest  means.  As  Corneille  lived  at  Rouen, 
and  came  to  Paris  only  to  arrange  for  the  performance  of 
his  pieces,  his  only  weapons  against  their  attacks  were  his 
successes,  and  even  these  were  turned  into  arms  against 
him.  The  success  of  the  "  Cid"  was  regarded  as  an 
insult  by  the  resentment  of  a  protector  whom  he  had 

C!é8ar  de  Vendôme,  who  was  present  at  the  performance  of  this  piece  of 
the  Cardinal's." 

'  Corneille,  "  Excuse  à  Ariste."  It  is  well  known  that  this  piece  gained 
its  author  a  host  of  enemies.  It  was  frequently  quoted  during  the  quarrel 
that  arose  about  the  "  Cid." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  155 

neglected  and  irritated  ;  and  it  appeared,  in  his  eyes, 
the  triumph  of  a  rebel. 

All  arras  were  considered  good  enough  to  attack  him  ; 
Scudéry  was  thought  less  ridiculous,  and  even  Claveret' 
was  deemed  a  worthy  and  useful  auxiliary.  The  Cardi- 
nal wrote,  by  means  of  Bois-Robert,  to  Mairet,  who  had 
praised  the  "Veuve,"  but  declared  against  the  "  Cid  :" 
"  His  Eminence  has  read  with  extreme  pleasure  all  that 
has  been  written  on  the  subject  of  the  'Cid,'  and  particu- 
larly a  letter  of  yours  which  was  shown  to  him."  In 
this  letter,  Corneille's  answers  to  the  gross  insults  of 
his  enemies  are  called  libels  ;  and,  though  he  had  not  read 
them,  his  Eminence,  on  seeing  their  rejoinders,  "  presup- 
posed that  he  had  been  the  aggressor."*       *  '     , 

The  biiterness  of  Corneille's  enemies  may  easily  be  con- 
ceived by  the  humility  of  their  confessions.  Scudéry  thus 
begins  his  attack  upon  the  "Cid"  :  "  There  are  certain 
pieces,  like  certain  animals  that  exist  in  nature,  which, 
at  a  distance,  look  like  stars,  and  which,  on  close  inspec- 
tion, are  only  worms."  He  then  expresses  his  astonish- 
ment that  such  fantastic  beauties  "should  have  deluded 
wisdom  as  well  as  ignorance,  and  the  Court  as  well  as 
the  citizen"  ;  and,  begging  pardon  of  that  public  whom 
he  thinks  it  his  duty  to  enlighten,  he  "  conjures  honor- 
able persons  to  suspend  their  judgment  for  a  little  while, 
and  not  to  condemn  without  a  hearing  the  '  Sophonis- 
be,'  the  'César,"  the  '  Cléopatre,' "  the  'Hercule,'"  the 
'  Marianne,'  '  the  '  Cléomedon,'  ''  and  a  host  of  other  illus- 

'  The  unknown  author  of  a  few  dramas  and  other  works,  which  are  very 
bad  even  for  the  time  at  which  they  were  written. 

^  See  Bois-Robert's  letter  to  Mairet,  in  the  preface  to  the  "  Cid,"  and  in 
Abhé  Granet's    "Recueil  des  Dissertations  sur  Corneille  et  Racine." 

^  By  Scudéry.         ■*  By  Benserade.         ^  By  Rolron.         •>  By  Tristan. 

''  By  Durycr.  Most  of  these  pieces  had  been  performed  during  the  same 
year  as  the  "  Cid,"  which,  as  it  appears,  was  not  brought  on  the  stage  until 
the  end  of  the  year. 


156  LIFE    AND   WRITINGS  OF 

trious  heroes  who  have  charmed  them  on  the  stage." 
Satisfied  with  this  cry  of  distress,  Corneille  might  well 
have  pardoned  enemies  who,  at  the  outset,  confessed  them- 
selves vanquished.  But  even  self-love  has  its  humility, 
and  will  disdain  no  opponent.  Such  is  the  strange 
mixture  of  loftiness  and  timidity,  of  vigor  of  imagination 
and  simplicity  of  judgment  !  By  his  success  alone  Cor- 
neille had  become  aware  of  his  talents  ;  but  when  once  he 
knew  his  own  powers,  he  became,  and  remained,  fully 
convinced  of  their  extent  and  worth.  As  soon  as  he  felt 
that  Corneille  was  a  superior  man,  he  said  so,  without 
imagining  that  any  one  could  doubt  it  : 

"  Je  sais  ce  que  je  vaux,  et  crois  ce  qu'on  m'en  dit," 

he  says  himself  in  the  "Excuse  à  Ariste  ;"  and,  in  the 
same  piece  he  speaks  thus  of  his  genius  : 

"  Quittant  souvent  la  terre,  en  quittant  la  barrière, 
Puis  d'un  vol  élevé  se  cachant  dans  les  cieux, 
Il  rit  du  désespoir  de  tous  ses  envieux. 


Je  pense  toutefois  n'avoir  point  de  rival, 
A  qui  je  fasse  tort  en  le  traitant  d'égal." 


It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that,  holding  this  opinion 
of  himself.  Corneille  considered  the  first  criticisms  of  his 
works  as  an  insult  to  evidence.  Afterward,  however,  they 
caused  him  some  anxiety,  both  regarding  his  glory,  and 
the  opinion  which  he  had  formed  of  it.  Ho  was  afraid 
to  call  in  question  that  which  he  had  believed  to  be  cer- 
tain ;  and  ho  struggled  against  such  a  contingency  at  first, 
with  the  haughtiness  of  conviction,  but  afterward,  with 
the  violence  of  fear. 

At  this  juncture  in  his  history,  when  Corneille  is  about 
to  enter  personally  into  the  lists  in  opposition  to  such 
powerful  enemies,  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  obtain  a 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  157 

complete  idea  of  his  character  and  position,  in  order  to  bo 
able  rightly  to  judge  both  of  the  necessity  for  making  con- 
cessions, and  of  the  courage  requisite  for  resistance.  Cor- 
neille was  immediately  dependent  upon  the  Cardiç^l, 
whom,  in  a  letter  to  Scudéry,  he  calls  "  your  master  and 
mine."  '  This  expression  shocked  Voltaire  ;  but  it  was 
not  at  all  at  variance  with  the  customs  q{  Corneille's 
time.  At  a  period  when  gentlemen  of  the  highest  birth 
entered  the  service  of  others  more  rich  than  themselves  ;  * 
when  money  was  the  natural  price  paid  for  all  services,' 
and  wealth  a  sort  of  suzerainty'  which  collected  around 
itself  vassals  ready  to  pay  it  a  kind  of  homage  which  was 
considered  perfectly  legitimate,  we  need  not  be  surprised 
that  a  burgess  of  Rouen  felt  no  shame  in  considering 
himself  almost  a  domestic,"  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  a  subject 

'  See  the  "  Réponse  aux  observations  sur  le  '  Cid.'  "  He  was  in  receipt 
of  a  pension  from  the  Cardinal. 

^  Cardinal  de  Retz,  when  merely  Abbé  de  Gondi,  during  his  travels  in 
Italy,  had  in  his  suite  "  seven  or  eight  gentlemen,  four  of  whom  were  Knights 
of  Malta."     "Memoirs  of  De  Retz,"  vol.  i.  pp.  16,  17. 

*  It  appears  that,  independently  of  the  prologue  in  verse  with  which  authors 
sometimes  preceded  their  pieces,  the  first  performance  was  opened  by  a  sort 
of  prose  prologue,  in  which  the  authors  were  named.  Cardinal  dc  Richelieu, 
feeling  desirous  that  Chapelain  should  consent  to  have  his  name  mentioned 
in  the  prologue  to  the  comedy  of  the  "  Thuilleries,"  "besought  him  to  lend 
him  his  name  on  this  occasion,"  adding  that,  in  return,  he  "  would  lend  him 
his  purse  when  he  needed  it."  It  is  to  be  hoped,  for  the  honor  of  Chape- 
Iain's  taste,  that  he  set  a  high  price  on  the  performance  of  a  service  of  this  kind. 

•*  That  sort  of  pride  which  maintains  equality  of  condition  under  inequality 
of  fortune,  was  then  completely  unknown.  "  I  have  never  been  touched 
with  avarice,"  says  the  Abbé  de  Marolles,  "  nor  of  a  humor  to  ask  for  any 
thing,  although  presents  from  rich  and  disinterested  persons  would  have  been 
agreeable  to  me,  because  they  require  no  return,  except  pure  civilities,  which 
give  no  trouble  ;  whereas  presents  from  poor  persons,  or  equals,  always  com- 
pel us  to  give  greater  ones."     "  Mémoires  de  Marolles,"  vol.  ii.  p.  143. 

^  Domestic  was  the  title  then  assumed  by  all  those  who  were  attached  to 
thfe  service  of  powerful  men.  Pelisson  speaks  of  several  Academicians  who 
were  domestics  of  Chancellor  Seguier.  ("  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  15.5.) 
La  Rochepot,  a  cousin-german  and  intimate  friend  of  that  Abbé  de  Gondi, 
who  had  four  Knights  of  Malta  in  his  suite,  was  a  domestic  of  the  Duke  of 
Orleans.  ("Memoirs  of  De  Retz,"  vol.  i.  p.  31.)  It  is  not  impossible  that 
Corneille  may  have  had  the  title  of  some  office  in  the  Cardinal's  household. 


158  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

of  an  all-powerful  minister,  whose  liberality  was  his  main- 
stay, and  in  whose  favor  his  hopes  were  centred.  The 
increased  power  and  diiffusion  of  knowledge  have,  in  our 
da^,  enhanced  the  worth  of  merit,  and  established  a  juster 
proportion  between  man  and  things.  The  honest  man 
has  learned  to  estimate  himself  at  his  true  value,  and  to 
respect  himself  even  when  his  fortunes  are  low  ;  he  has 
learned  that  the  reception  of  a  benefit  can  not  enslave 
him,  and  has  felt  that  he  must  not  solicit  benefits  in  re- 
turn for  which  he  is  expected  to  give  gratitude  only,  and 
not  personal  work.  Quickened  by*  that  instinctive  feel- 
ing of  delicate  pride  which  has  been  developed  in  us  by 
education,  and  which  a  regard  for  propriety  maintains 
even  in  those  over  whom  it  exercises  the  least  influence, 
we  shall  meet  with  many  actions  and  words,  in  the  life 
of  Corneille,  utterly  at  variance  with  our  ideas  and  habits. 
We  shall  pass  with  surprise  from  his  tragedies  to  his 
dedicatory  epistles  ;  and  we  shall  blush  to  see  the  same 
hand — 

" La  main  qui  crayonna 

L'âme  du  grand  Pompée  et  l'esprit  de  Cinna,"  ^ 

stretched  forth,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  to 
solicit  liberalities  which  it-  did  not  always  obtain,*  We 
shall  ask  ourselves  whether  the  same  man  could  thus  al- 
ternately rise  to  such  lofty  heights  of  genius  and  descend 

'  See  the  letter  to  Fouquct,  printed  at  the  beginning  of  "Œdipe,"  in  Vol- 
taire's edition  ;  and  in  vol.  x.  p.  76,  of  the  edition  of  1758. 

^  See  his  "  Epître  de  la  Poésie  à  la  Peinture,"  in  which  he  speaks  of 
liberality  as  a  virtue  which  has  been  so  long  banished  from  the  Court  that 
even  its  name  has  been  forgotten  : 

"J'en  fais  souvent  reproche  à  ce  climat  heureux  ; 
Je  me  plains  aux  plus  grands  conjine  aux  plus  généreux  ; 
Par  trop  m'en  plaindre  en  vain  je  deviens  ridicule  ; 
Ou  l'on  ne  iu"enlcnd  pas,  ou  bien  l'on  dissimule." 

Corneille,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  x.  p.  81. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  159 

to  such  depths  of  abasement  ;  and  we  shall  find  that,  in- 
fluenced sometimes  by  his  genius  and  sometimes  by  his 
circumstances,  he  really  was  not  the  same  man  in  both 
positions. 

Let  us  first  look  at  Corneille  in  his  social  relations. 
Destitute  of  all  that  distinguishes  a  man  from  his  equals, 
he  seems  to  be  irrevocably  doomed  to  pass  unnoticed  in 
the  crowd.  His  appearance  is  common,'  his  conversation 
dull,  his  language  incorrect,*  his  timidity  awkward,  his 
judgment  uncertain,  and  his  experience  perfectly  childish. 
If  he  finds  himself  brought  into  contact,  either  by  neces- 
sity or  chance,  with  persons  whom  birth  or  fortune  have 
placed  above  him,  he  does  not  rightly  appreciate  the  posi- 
tion which  he  occupies  in  respect  to  them,  but  thinks 
only  of  the  one  connection  of  protector  and  protected, 
which  subsists  between  him  and  them.  Of  all  their  dif- 
ferent titles  to  consideration,  he  regards  only  the  claims 
which  they  may  possibly  have  to  his  gratitude,  and  thus 


^  "  The  first  time  I  saw  him,  I  took  him  for  a  shopkeeper,"  says  Vignail- 
Manille,  in  his  "  Mélanges  d'Histoire  et  de  Littérature,"  vol.  ii.  p.  167. 
"  M.  Corneille  was  rather  large  and  full  of  body,  and  very  simple  and  com- 
mon in  appearance,"  says  Fontcndlc,  in  his  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  vol.  iii.  p. 
124.  He  had,  however,  according  to  Fontenelle,  "a  rather  agreeable  coun- 
tenance, a  large  nose,  a  pretty  mouth,  eyes  full  of  fire,  an  animated  phy- 
siognomy, and  very  marked  features,  well-adapted  to  be  transmitted  to  pos- 
terity by  means  of  a  medallion  or  a  bust." 

*  "  Another  is  simple  and  timid,  very  tiresome  in  conversation  ;  he  takes 

one  word  for  another He  can  not  recite  his  own  pieces,  nor  read 

his  own  writing."  La  Bruyère,  "Des  Jugements,"  vol.  ii.  p.  84.  "His 
conversation  was  so  dull  that  it  became  burdensome,  even  if  it  lasted  only  a 
short  time.  He  never  spoke  the  French  language  very  correctly."  Vigncul- 
Marr'dle,  vol.  ii.  pp.  167,  168.  "  His  pronunciation  was  not  altogether  clear  ; 
he  read  his  poems  forcibly,  but  not  with  grace.  In  order  to  find  out  the 
great  Corneille,  it  was  necessary  to  read  him."  Fontenelle,  p.  125.  It  was 
said  that  he  was  worth  hearing  only  at  the  Hôtel  de  Bourgogne,  and  he  was 
so  conscious  of  this  that  he  says  himself,  in  his  "  Letter  to  Pelisson  : 

"  Et  l'on  peut  rarement  m'écouter  sans  eniiuy, 
Que  quand  je  me  produis  par  la  bouche  d"autrui."    ■ 

Corneille,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  x.  p.  124. 


160  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

he  will  place  a  Montauron  '  on  a  level  with,  if  not  above, 
Richelieu  and  Mazarin.  It  is  always  possible  to  de- 
termine by  the  nature  of  the  homage  which  Corneille 
pays,  the  amount  of  the  reward  he  received  for  it  ;  and 
the  excessive  character  of  his  eulogies  will  never  prove 
any  thing  but  the  excess  of  his  gratitude.  Nothing  in  these 
panegyrics  seems  to  be  at  all  repugnant  to  those  feelings 
which  he  had  not  raised  above  his  position  ;  and  in  most 
of  his  actions,  he  is  nothing  more  than  what  fortune  made 
him. 

"Let  him  elevate  himself  by  composition;  he  is  not 
inferior  to  Augustus,  Pompey,  Nicomedes,  or  Heraclius. 
He  is  a  king,  and  a  great  king  ;  he  is  a  politician — nay 
more,  a  philosopher."*  He  has  passed  into  a  new  sphere  ; 
a  new  horizon  has  opened  before  him  ;  he  has  escaped 
from  the  trammels  of  a  position  which  bound  down  his 
imagination  to  the  interests  of  a  fortune  far  inferior  to  his 
faculties  ;  he  can  now  appreciate  all  the  duties  necessarily 
imposed  upon  generous  souls,  by  an  important  existence, 

'  The  partisan  Montauron,  to  whom  Corneille  dedicated  "  Cinna."  In 
his  dedicatory  epistle  he  compares  him  to  Augustus,  because  Augustus 
united  clemency  wdth  liberality.  M.  de  Montauron,  who  was  as  liberal  as 
Augustus,  must  necessarily,  like  him,  possess  both  virtues  conjointly.  It 
is  somewhat  singular  that,  in  several  editions  in  which  this  epistle  is  con- 
tained, the  epithets  liberal  and  generous,  applied  to  M.  de  Montauron,  are 
printed  in  large  characters  like  those  iised  for  the  words  Monseigneur  or 
Votre  Altesse,  in  order  to  point  out  M.  de  Montauron's  title  to  this  kind  of 
homage.  It  is  said  that  the  dedication  of  "Cinna"  gained  Corneille  a  thou- 
sand pistoles.  It  is  added  that  he  at  first  intended  to  dedicate  this  play  to 
Cardinal  Mazarin  ;  but  he  preferred  M.  de  Montauron,  because  he  paid  bet- 
ter. Although  men  were  accustomed  to  the  most  inflated  style  of  eulogy, 
great  fault  was  found  with  Corneille  for  this  epistle  ;  and  praises  of  this 
kind,  written  on  such  terms?,  were  called  thenceforward  dedications  à  la 
Montauron.  The  eleventh  article  of  the  "  Parnasse  Réformé"'  declares  : 
"  We  Huppress  all  panegyrics  à  la  Montauron.'''  This  Montauron  having 
ruined  himself,  Scarron  wrote  : 

"  Cc  n'est  que  maro(\uin  jierdu 
Que  les  livres  que  l'on  dédie, 
Diipui.^  que  Montauron  mendie." 
*  La  Bruyère,  "  Caractères,"  vol.  ii.  p.  84. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.    ^  161 

a  lofty  destiny,  and  the  possibility  and  expectation  of 
glory  ;  and  with  all  the  force  of  deep,  inward  conviction, 
he  has  laid  upon  his  heroes  obligations  which  he  had  not 
been  accustomed  to  attach  to  the  humble  social  existence 
of  Pierre  Corneille.' 

There  is,  however,  one  point  on  which  he  is  raised  by 
this  existence  above  the  vulgar  herd — his  works  issued 
from  the  obscurity  in  which  his  life  was  spent.  By  his 
literary  renown  he  acquired  public  importance  ;  and 
thenceforward,  he  regarded  his  renown  as  an  object  of 
duty.  In  his  works  he  pays  proper  respect  to  himself; 
with  them  were  connected  not  only  the  honor  of  his  glory, 
but  also  the  dignity  of  his  character  ;  he  would  deem 
himself  degraded  if  he  did  not  acknowledge  their  merit 
with  all  the  frankness  and  boldness  of  a  champion  intrust- 
ed with  their  defense,  or  if  he  consented  to  abdicate  the 
rank  in  which  they  had  placed  him.  "It  is  not  your 
fault,"  he  says  to  Scudéry,  "that,  from  that  first  rank  in 
which  I  am  placed  by  many  competent  persons,  I  have 
not  descended  lower  even  than  Claveret,  .  .:.•.;.  Of  a 
truth,  I  should  justly  be  reprehensible  if  I  were  incensed 
against  you  on  account  of  a  matter  which  has  proved  the 
accomplishment  of  my  glory,  and  from  which  the  '  Cid' 
has  gained  this  advantage,  that,  out  of  the  multitude  of 
poems  which  have  appeared  up  to  this  time,  it  is  the  only 
one  whose  brilliance/  has  obliged  envy  to  take  up  its  pen."* 

Nevertheless,  even  while  defending  himself  so  proudly, 
Corneille  did  not  depart  from  the  ordinary  ideas  and 
habits  of  his  conduct,  in  those  things  which  concerned 
him  as  a  man,  and  not  as  a  poet.     He  evidently  believed 


'  "  He  clothes  his  old  heroes  with  all  that  is  noble  in  the  imatrinrition  ; 
and  you  would  say  that  he  forbids  himself  the  use  of  his  own  property,  as 
if  he  were  not  worthy  of  it."     Saint-Evrcmond,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  p.  246. 

"'  Corneille,  "Réponse  aux  Observations  de  Scudéry." 


162  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

in  two  very  distinct  kinds  of  honor,  which  it  appeared  to 
him  all  the  more  ridiculous  to  confound  together,  as  he 
made  no  use  at  all  of  one  of  them.  The  same  man  who, 
in  the  "Cid,"  had  dilated  so  loftily  upon  the  duties  im- 
posed by  honor  upon  brave  men,'  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  fulfill  those  duties  himself;  and  looking  at  his 
physical  courage  as  entirely  unconcerned  in  the  question, 
he  thus  replied  to  Scudéry's  rhodomontades  :*  "There  is 
no  necessity  for  knowing  how  much  nobler  or  more  val- 
iant you  may  be  than  myself,  in  order  to  judge  how  far 

superior  the  '  Cid'  is  to  the  '  Amant  libéral." I 

am  not  a  fighting  man  ;  so  that,  in  that  respect,  you  have 
nothing  to  fear."  Corneille  was  no  longer  either  a  Count 
of  Grormas,  or  a  Don  Rodrigue,  but  a  man  whose  glory 
consisted  in  writing  fine  poetry,  and  not  in  fighting  ; 
though  bold  enough  to  brave  the  resentment  of  a  minister 
by  defending  compositions  which  gained  him  universal 
admiration,  he  would  not  expose  himself  to  a  sword- 
thrust,  in  order  to  establish  a  reputation  for  courage, 
about  which  no  one  felt  any  interest.  He  thought  it 
marvelous  that  such  an  idea  should  have  found  its  way 
into  a  literary  discussion  ;  so  he  looked  with  equal  con- 
tempt on  Scudéry's  challenge  and  his  arguments,  without 
deigning  an  answer  to  either  ;  and  did  not  think  himself 
more  dishonored  by  being  less  valiant  than  a  practiced 

^  At  a  time  when  eflbrts  were  being  made  to  abolish  duelinjr,  it  was 
found  necessary  to  omit  as  dangerous  the  foUowmg  Unes,  in  which  the 
Count  of  Gonnas  replied  to  Don  Fernand's  attempts  to  reconcile  him  to 
Don  Dieguc  : 

"  Les  satisfactions  n'appaisent  point  une  âme'; 
Qui  les  reçoit  n'a  rien  ;  qui  les  ftit  se  diffame  ; 
Et  de  tous  ces  accords,  relict  le  plus  commun 
Est  do  déshonorer  deux  hommes  au  lieu  d'un." 
■  Contained  in  a  private  letter,  in  which  Scudéry  had  sent  him  a  sort  of 
challenge. 

'  One  of  Scudéry's  worst  comedies. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  163 

swordsman,  than  he  could  he  by  refusing  to  appear  in  a 
character  which  was  not  his  own.  So  strong  was  his  con- 
viction that  the  honor  of  Corneille  did  not  depend  upon  his 
physical  courage  ! 

The  tone,  however,  which  these  disputes  assumed  con- 
vinced Cardinal  Richelieu  of  the  necessity  of  putting  a 
stop  to  them.  In  order  to  insure  the  triumph  of  the 
cause  which  he  promoted,  he  judged  it  more  prudent  to 
appeal  to  the  authority  of  a  tribunal,  than  to  leave  the 
decision  to  the  issue  of  a  combat  in  which  the  voice  of 
the  people — which,  in  this  case,  was  certainly  "  the  voice 
of  Grod" — did  not  seem  disposed  to  give  judgment  in  his 
favor.  Silence  was,  therefore,  imposed  upon  both  parties, 
pending  the  decision  of  the  Academy,  which,  for  the 
second  time,  found  itself  involuntarily  invested  with  the 
dangerous  honors  of  authority.'  In  vain  did  it  allege  its 
well-grounded  fear  of  making  its  young  existence  odious 
by  the  exercise  of  a  power  which  it  was  not  admitted  to 
possess.  The  wisest  of  its  members  said,  "  that  it  was 
barely  tolerated,  upon  the  simple  supposition  that  it 
claimed  some  authority  over  the  language  :  what  would 
be  the  result  if  it  manifested  any  desire  to  vindicate  that 
authority,  and  undertook  to  exercise  it  over  a  work  which 
had  satisfied  the  majority,  and  gained  the  approbation  of 
the  people  ?"*  The  Cardinal  was  not,  however,  to  he 
deterred  from  his  purpose  by  such  arguments  as  these  : 
as  Pelisson  says,  "  they  appeared  to  him  of  very  little  im- 
portance." But  the  Academy  now  urged  conformity  to 
its  statutes,  which  enacted  "that  it  could  not  judge  a 
work  without  the  consent  and  request  of  the  author  ;"  and 
Corneille  was  not  disposed  to  remove  this  obstacle.     In 

^  Scudéry  had  written  to  submit  his  case  to  the  judgment  of  the  Academy, 
and  the  Cardinal  expressed  a  wish  that  it  should  pronounce  upon  the 
matter.     Pelisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  189. 

*  Pelisson,  "Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  190. 


164  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

vain  did  Bois-RoLert  employ  all  the  efforts  of  a  Court 
friendship  to  obtain  the  accomplishment  of  his  master's 
desires.  By  his  residence  at  Court,  Corneille  had  at  least 
learned  those  formalities  by  which  trickery  may  be  frus- 
trated. "  He  continually  maintained,"  says  Pelisson,  "  a 
complimentary'  tone,  and  answered  that  such  an  occupa- 
tion was  not  worthy  of  the  Academy  ;  that  a  libel  which 
deserved  no  answer  was  beneath  its  notice  ;  that  the  con- 
sequences of  giving  an  opinion  on  the  matter  would  be 
dangerous,  because  it  would  give  envy  a  pretext  for  con- 
tinually appealing  to  their  decision  ;  and  that  as  soon  as 
a  fine  piece  had  appeared  on  the  stage,  the  poetasters 
would  think  themselves  justified  in  bringing  charges 
against  its  author  before  the  members  of  the  Academy.'" 
These  unanswerable  reasons  were  urged  in  reply  to  Bois- 
Robert's  reiterated  entreaties  ;  and  the  force  of  these  rea- 
sons, independently  of  all  personal  considerations,  resisted 
all  the  insinuations  of  a  pretended  friendship.  At  length, 
it  became  necessary  to  change  these  insinuations  into 
positive  language,  and  formally  to  announce  the  wish  of 
a  minister  with  whom  a  desire  was  a  command.  Then, 
also,  it  became  necessary  to  understand  clearly  and  an- 
swer distinctly.  After  Corneille  had  once  more  repeated 
his  usual  objections,  "there  escaped  from  him,"  says  Pel- 
isson, "  this  addition  :  '  The  gentlemen  of  the  Academy 
may  do  as  they  please  ;  as  you  write  that  Monseigneur 
wpuld  be  glad  to  have  their  judgment,  and  that  it  would 
divert  his  Eminence,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.'  "* 

Corneille  might  regard  these  last  words  as  a  refusal,' 
but  Richelieu  would  take    them   for   a   consent.     The 

^  Pelisson,  "Histoire  de  l'Arailéniio,"  p.  192.  ^  Ibitl.  p.  193. 

^  Sep  in  V^oltairc's  edition  of  Corneille,  vol.  i.  p.  1.59,  the  preface  placed  at 
tlic  commencement  of  tlie  "  C^id,"  after  the  death  of  the  Cardinal,  in  which 
he  formally  denies  ever  havin^r  "  agreed  on  jud<res  regardinir  his  merit,"  as 
he  would  consider  such  a  proceeding  "  a  disgraceful  blot  on  his  reputation." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  165 

Academy  still  resisted  :  and  authority,  driven  to  its  ut- 
most limits,  used  its  last  resources.  "  Tell  those  gen- 
tlemen that  I  desire  it,  and  that  I  shall  love  them  as  they 
love  me."  These  were  the  last  words  which  the  minister 
had  to  utter  ;  the  Academy,  like  Corneille,  thought  it  had 
nothing  more  to  say. 

It  obeyed  ;  hut  the  danger,  nevertheless,  continued. 
Richelieu  had  intended  to  obtain  support,  and  not  opposi- 
tion, to  his  opinion.  Angry  remarks,'  appended  by  him 
to  the  report  of  the  Academy,  which  was  always  presented 
in  fear,  and  received  with  ill-humor,  testified  to  the  irri- 
tation of  his  mind,  which  daily  became  more  exasperated 
at  a  kind  of  opposition  over  which  he  felt,  perhaps  for  the 
first  time,  that  authority  had  no  power.  The  report  was 
laid  before  him  a  second  time  with  no  better  success  ;^  he 
desired  that  it  should  breathe  the  complaisance  of  sub- 
mission, but  he  found  merely  the  compliance  of  gratitude. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  Richelieu  lost  his  temper. 
"At  one  of  the  conferences  which  took  place  on  this  sub- 
ject at  the  Cardinal's  house,  Cerisy,  who  had  been  sum- 
moned to  attend,  having  absented  himself  on  some  pre- 
text or  another,  M.  Chapelain,"  says  Pelisson,  "  endeavor- 
ed, as  he  told  me,  to  make  excuses  for  M.  de  Cerisy  as  he 
best  could  ;  but  he  perceived  at  once  that  that  man  would 
not  be  contradicted  ;  for  he  saw  him  grow  angry  and  put 
himself  into  action,  until,  addressing  him,  he  took  him 
and  held  him  for  some  time  by  the  button,  just  as  you  do 

'  "  At  one  place,  where  it  was  said  that  poetry  would  now  be  much  less 
perfect  than  it  is,  but  for  the  disputes  which  had  arisen  about  the  works  of 
the  most  celebrated  authors  of  the  last  age,  such  as  the  'Jerusalem  Deliver- 
ed,' and  the  '  Pastor  Fido,'  he  wrote  on  the  margin  ;  '  The  applause  and 
blame  of  the  '  Cid'  lies  only  between  the  learned  and  the  ignorant,  whereas 
the  disputes  about  the  other  two  pieces  occurred  between  men  of  talent.'  '' — 
Pelisson,  "Histoire  de  rAcadéniie,"  p.  198. 

"  This  report  was  rejected  three  times  by  the  Cardinal  ;  and  Chapelain 
was  appointed  to  prepare  it  for  the  fourth  and  last  time. 


166  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

when  you  wish  to  speak  strongly  to  any  one  and  convince 
him  of  any  thing.'"  But  bad  temper  was  not  sufficient  ; 
the  Cardinal  could  no  longer  say,  "  I  will,"  and  the 
Academy  would  take  no  hints.  Timid  but  persevering 
reason  at  length  prevailed  ;  and  after  five  months'  labor, 
the  "  Sentiments  of  the  Academy"  appeared.  "  I  know 
perfectly  well,"  says  Pelisson,  "  that  the  Cardinal  would 
have  wished  them  to  treat  the  '  Cid'  more  harshly,  if  they 
had  not  skillfully  given  him  to  understand  that  a  judge 
ought  not  to  speak  as  an  interested  party,  and  that,  the 
more  passion  they  displayed,  the  less  weight  would  be 
attached  to  their  authority."* 

The  public  taste,  becoming  more  enlightened  by  the 
progress  of  reason  and  the  contemplation  of  great  models, 
gave  entire  approval  neither  to  the  censures,  nor  even  to 
all  the  praises  of  the  Academy.'  In  the  ideas  of  a  litera- 
ture which  was  in  entire  conformity  to  the  usages  and 
decorum  of  society,  it  was  impossible  to  learn  how  to 
appreciate  the  master-pieces  of  an  art  essentially  popu- 
lar— -of  an  art  which  aimed  at  seeking  out,  from  among 
the  deepest  and  most  independent  of  natural  feelings,  pre- 
cisely those  sentiments  which  society  teaches  us  to  re- 
strain and  conceal.  Writers  accustomed  to  discuss  the 
merits  of  a  sonnet,  according  to  fixed  rules,  could  not 
but  feel  that  all  these  rules  were  thrown  into  confusion 
when  applied  to  the  most  imperious  movements  of  the  hu- 
man heart.  Nothing  in  their  own  literature  had  revealed 
to  them  the  truth  ;  and  nothing  in  ancient  authors  fur- 
nished them  with  reliable  data  by  which  to  judge  of  that 

'  Pelisson,  "Histoire  de  rAcailûmio,"  p.  202.  -  Ibid.  p.  221. 

'  As,  for  example,  the  praise  bestowed  upon  this  line  : 

"  Ma  plus  douce  espérance  est  de  perdre  l'espoir," 
which  it  declared  very  fine,  notwithstanding  Scudi-ry's  criticism  that  '"  it 
was  not  far  removed  from  balderdash."     Ill-temper  enlightened  Scudéry's 
bad  taste;  the  bad  taste  of  the  time  waqied  tlie  judgment  of  the  Academy. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  167 

new  truth  which  Corneille  had  imparted  to  the  portrait- 
ure of  modern  manners.  "  Corneille,"  said  Boileau,  "  has 
invented  a  new  kind  of  tragedies,  unknown  to  Aris- 
totle.'" "Let  us  not  believe,"  says  Fontenelle,  "that 
the  truth  is  victorious  as  soon  as  it  manifests  itself;  it 
conquers  in  the  end,  but  it  requires  some  time  to  subju- 
gate the  minds  of  men."*  Our  minds  resist  the  truth 
even  after  our  feelings  have  acknowledged  it  ;  and  the 
reason  always  perplexes  before  it  elucidates  that  which 
the  heart  understands  at  first  sight.  The  spectators  who 
were  most  affected  by  the  beauties  of  the  "  Cid,"  might 
have  been  greatly  embarrassed  to  account  for  their  feel- 
ings ;  provided  that  they  had  their  pleasure,  they  con- 
sented willingly  to  suppose  that  they  had  not  enjoyed 
it  in  accordance  with  the  rules  ;  but  the  Academicians, 
on  the  contrary,  had  to  busy  themselves  solely  about 
the  rules.  As  members  of  the  public  they  could  not  re- 
frain from  admiring  things  which,  in  their  quality  of 
judges,  they  were  perhaps  bound  to  condemn.  Though 
obliged,  out  of  respect  for  propriety,  to  blame  the  first 
scene  of  the  fifth  act,  and  to  find  especial  fault  with  the 
line — 

"  Sors  vainqueur  d'un  combat  dont  Chimène  est  le  prix  ;" 

they  could  not  resist  the  overpowering  force  both  of  the 
sentiment  and  the  expression.  "  This  scene,"  they  said, 
"  is  characterized  by  all  the  imperfections  it  must  pos-; 
sess  if  we  consider  the  matter  as  forming  an  essential 
part  of  this  poem  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  considering  it 
apart  and  detached  from  the  subject,  the  passion  which 
it  contains  seems  to  us  very  finely  portrayed  and  ad- 
mirably managed,  and  the  expressions   are  worthy  of 

'  Boileau,  "Lettre  à  Perrault,"  in  vol.  v.  p.  185  of  his  works. 
'  Fontenelle,  "Vie  de  Corneille,"  in  vol.  iii.  p.  57  of  his  works. 


168  LIFE  AND  WHITINGS  OF 

high  praise."  Balzac,  who  had  retired  into  the  country, 
and  took  no  part  in  the  Academy's  deliberations  upon 
the  "  Cid,"  wrote  thus  to  Scudéry  who  had  sent  him  a 
copy  of  his  "  Observations  :"  "  Consider,  Sir,  that  all 
France  sides  with  him  (the  author  of  the  'Cid'),  and 
that  perhaps  there  is  not  one  of  the  judges  whom  you 
have  agreed  upon,  who  has  not  praised  that  which  you 
desire  him  to  condemn  ;  so  that,  even  if  your  arguments 
were  unanswerable,  and  your  adversary  admitted  their 
force,  he  would  still  have  great  reason  to  take  glorious 
consolation  for  the  loss  of  his  cause,  and  to  tell  you  that 
it  is  far  better  to  have  delighted  a  whole  kingdom  than 

to  have  written  a  regular  piece This  being  the 

case,  Sir,  I  do  not  doubt  that  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Academy  will  find  themselves  greatly  perplexed  in  de- 
ciding upon  your  suit,  and  that  your  reasons  will  influ- 
ence their  minds  on  the  one  hand,  and  public  approba- 
tion will  afiect  them  on  the  other."  "  The  '  Cid,'  "  said 
La  Bruyère,  "  is  one  of  the  finest  poems  possible  to  be 
written  ;  and  the  criticism  of  the  '  Cid'  is  one  of  the  best 
ever  written  on  any  subject.'" 

Independently  of  the  formal  approbation  bestowed  on 
various  parts  of  the  work,  the  Academy  admitted  "  that 
even  learned  men  must  grant  some  indulgence  to  the 
irregularities  of  a  work  which  would  not  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  please  the  community  so  much,  if  it  had 

not  possessed  uncommon  beauties and  that  the 

naturalness  and  vehemence  of  its  passions,  the  force  and 
delicacy  of  many  of  its  thoughts,  and  that  indescribable 
charm  which  mingles  with  all  its  defects,  have  gained  for 
it  a  high  rank  among  French  poems  of  the  same  character." 

The  "  Sentiments"  of  the  Academy  were  addressed  to 
Scudéry,  as  his  "  Observations"  had  served  as  their  text. 

'  La  Bruyère,  "Caractères,"  vol.  i.  p.  113. 


riERRE  CORNEILLE.  169 

Scudéry  completed  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  affair  by 
thanking  the  Academy.  The  Academy,  however,  caring 
little  for  his  thanks,  sent  him  through  its  Secretary  an 
answer,  the  substance  of  which  was  "  that  its  chief  inten- 
tion had  been  to  hold  the  balance  fairly,  and  not  to  turn 
a  serious  matter  into  a  mere  civility  or  compliment;  but 
that,  next  to  this  intention,  its  greatest  care  had  been  to 
express  itself  with  moderation,  and  to  state  its  reasons 
without  wounding  either  party;  that  it  rejoiced  at  the 
justice  he  did  it  by  acknowledging  it  to  have  acted  justly  ; 
and  that,  at  some  future  time  it  would  requite  his  equity, 
and  whenever  it  was  in  its  power  to  do  him  a  service,  he 
should  have  nothing  to  desire  from  it.'" 

►Scudéry  perhaps  affected  an  appearance  of  satisfaction  ; 
but  Corneille  might  reasonably  think  he  had  a  right  to 
complain,  and  Boileau's  judgment  confirmed  his  opinion.' 
While  affecting  the  utmost  indifference,  he  complained 
bitterly,  and  heaped  upon  the  Academy  those  reproaches 
which  he  dared  not  cast  upon  a  more  exalted  delinquent  ; 
because,  he  said,  "it  has  proceeded  against  me  with  so 
much  violence  and  employed  so  sovereign  an  authority  to 
shut  my  mouth. "^  Bat  at  the  same  time,  continuing  his 
correspondence  with  the  Cardinal  through  Bois-Robert, 
Corneille  received  "the  liberalities  of  His  Eminence,"* 
and  acknowledged  the  wisdom  of  the  advice  given  him  by 
Bois-Robert  not  to  prolong  the  affair,  "  considering  the 
persons  engaged  in  it,"  although  his  original  intention  had 
been  to  write  an  answer  to  the  Academy,  and  dedicate  it 
to  the  Cardinal.     "  I  am,"  he  said,  "rather  more  worldly 

'  Pclisson,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  206. 
«  Boileau,  Satire  ix.  233,  234. 

"  L'Académie  en  corps  a  beau  le  censurer, 
Le  public  révolté  s'obstine  à  l'admirer." 
'  Pclisso7i,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  208. 
*  His  pension,  which  was  paid  him  by  Bois-Robert 

H 


170  LIPE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

than  Heliodorus,  who  preferred  to  lose  his  bishopric  rather 
than  abandon  his  book,  and  I  vakie  the  good  graces  of  my 
master  more  than  all  the  reputations  upon  earth."  But 
at  the  same  time  that  he  held  this  language,  he  dedica- 
ted the  "  Cid"  to  the  Duchess  d'Aiguillon,  the  Cardinal's 
niece;'  and  spoke  of  the  "  universal  success"  of  the  piece 
as  having  surpassed  "  the  most  ambitious  hopes"  of  the 
author,  and  justified  "  the  praises"  with  whjch  the  duch- 
ess "had  honored  it." 

This  twofold  course  of  procedure  is  very  puzzling,  and 
the  mind  strives  vainly  to  gain  a  clear  idea  of  the  true 
characters  of  Richelieu  and  Corneille,  in  this  strange 
contest.  "We  behold  the  "  Cid"  established,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  family  of  its  persecutor  ;  we  shall  soon  find  the 
author  himself  enjoying  the  familiarity  of  that  protector 
who  had  for  a  moment  become  his  enemy.  The  dedi- 
catory epistle  of  "  Horace,"  addressed  to  the  Cardmal, 
proves  that  Corneille  read  his  pieces  to  him,  and  this  pre- 
caution perhaps  secured  his  approbation.  The  storm  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  allayed  or  forgotten  ;  it  would 
seem  never  to  have  burst  forth  ;  and  here  we  must  place, 
if  we  admit  its  truth,  an  incident  in  Corneille's  life  re- 
lated by  Fontenelle,  which  would  prove  a  kindly  feeling 
on  the  part  of  the  Cardinal,  by  which  it  is  not  likely  that 
he  would  have  been  actuated  during  the  quarrel  about 
the  "  Cjd."  "  Corneille,"  says  Fontenelle,  "  presented  him- 
self one  day,  more  melancholy  and  thoughtful  than  usual, 
before  Cardinal  Richelieu,  who  asked  him  if  he  were  work- 
ing at  any  thing.  He  replied  that  he  was  far  from  en- 
joying the  tranquillity  necessary  for  composition,  as  his 
head  was  turned  upside  down  by  love.  By-and-by,  he 
came  to  more  minute  explanations,  and  told  the  Cardinal 

'  Then  Mine,  de  Combalct.     Voltaire  assures  us  that,  but  for  her,  Cor- 
neille would  have  been  disgraced. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  171 

that  he  was  passionately  in  love  with  a  daughter  of  the 
Lieutenant-Cieneral  of  Andely,  in  Normandy,  and  that  he 
could  not  obtain  her  in  marriage  from  her  father.  The 
Cardinal  sent  orders  for  tliis  obstinate  father  to  come  to 
•  Paris  ;  he  quickly  arrived  in  great  alarm  at  so  unexpected 
a  summons,  and  returned  home  well  satisfied  at  suffering 
no  worse  punishment  than  giving  his  daughter  to  a  man 
who  was  in  such  high  favor."  ' 

It  is  certain  that  Corneille  married  Marie  de  Lampé- 
rière,  daughter  of  the  Lieutenant-General  of  Andely  ;  and 
it  is  also  certain  that,  as  Fontenelle  goes  on  to  relate,  a 
report  was  spread  at  Paris,  on  the  very  night  of  his  mar- 
riage, that  he  had  died  of  peripneumony.  Some  Latin 
verses,  written  by  Ménage  on  the  occasion,  give  us  a  toler- 
ably accurate  clew  to  the  date,  as  he  is  mentioned  therein 
as  the  author  of  the  "  Cid,"  of  "  Horace,"  and  of  "  Cin- 
na."  *  So  singular  a  circumstance  would  need  to  be  sup- 
ported by  some  less  doubtful  authority  than  that  of  Fon- 
tenelle, who  docs  not  even  affirm  it  positively,  although 
he  had  it,  as  he  tells  us,  from  one  of  the  family  f  yet  the 

'  Fontenelle,  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  vol.  iii.  p.  122. 

*  The  piece  is  entitled,  "  Petri  Conielii  Epicedium,"  and  is  prefaced  in 
these  words  by  Ménage  :  "  Scripseram  cum  falsti  nunciatum  Cornelium,  quo 
die  uxorem  duxerat,  ex  peripneumonia  decessisse."  The  Unes  which  indi- 
cate the  date  of  the  occurrence  are  the  following  : 

"Donee  Apollinco  gaudebit  scena  cothurno 
Ignes  dicentur,  pulchra  (Jhimena,  tui  ; 
Quos  male  qui  carpsit,  dicam  ;  dolor  omnia  promit  ; 

Carminis  Iliaci  nobile  carpat  opu.s. 
Itale,  testis  eris  ;  testis  qui  llumina  potas 

Flava  Tagi  ;  nee  tu,  docte  Batave,  neges  ; 
Omnibus  in  terris  per  quos  audita  Chimena  est. 

Jamque  ignes  vario  personat  ore  suos.  -  .' 

Nee  tu,  crudclis  Medea,  taceberis  unquam  ; 

Non  Graiâ  inferior,  non  minor  Ausoniâ. 
Vos  quoque  tergemini.  Mavortia  pcctora,  fratres, 
Et  te,  Cinna  ferox,  fama  loquctur  anus." 

/Egidii  Menagii  Poemata,  pp.  30-32. 
'  At  all  events  he  is  necessarily  mistaken  as  to  the  date,  as  he  refers  it  to 


172  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

very  singularity  of  the  anecdote  will  not  allow  us  to  "be- 
lieve that  it  was  invented  by  the  narrator,  or  that  Cor- 
neille's  family  would  have  so  completely  forgotten  the 
resentment  of  so  powerful  a  protector  as  Cardinal  Rich- 
elieu, unless  the  Cardinal  himself  had  also  forgotten  it. 

The  lines  which  Corneille  wrote  upon  the  death  of  the 
Cardinal  would  even  seem  to  indicate  the  reception  of 
greater  benefits  than  a  mere  pension,  while  at  the  same 
time  they  make  us  aware  that  the  consciousness  of  obli- 
gation had  alone  imposed  silence  on  the  rancorous  feel- 
ings of  the  poet. 

"  Qu'on  parle  mal  ou  bien  du  fameux  Cardinal, 
Ma  prose  ni  mes  vers  n'en  diront  jamais  rien  : 
Il  m'a  fait  trop  de  bien  pour  en  dire  du  mal  ; 
Il  m'a  fait  trop  de  mal  pour  en  dire  du  bien."' 

It  was  natural  enough  for  the  poet  to  remember  what 
the  minister  had  forgotten  ;  and  Corneille  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  a  reconciliation  which 
on  his  side  was  not  complete.  Before  the  performance  of 
"  Les  Horaces,"  he  wrote  to  one  of  his  friends  :  "  Horace 
was  condemned  by  the  Duumvirs,  but  acquitted  by  the 
people."  *     Armed  at  all  points,  Corneille  firmly  awaited 

Corneille's  early  youth  :  "  M.  Corneille,"  he  says,  "  while  still  very  young, 
presented  himself,"  &c.  "  Cinna''  appeared  probably  toward  the  end  of 
1639,  "  Horace"  having  come  out  the  same  year  ;  some  time  must  have 
elapsed  since  the  performance  of  "Cinna;"  and  Corneille  could  not  then 
have  been  less  than  thirty-four  years  old.  Perhaps  Fontenellc,  having 
only  a  vague  impression  about  this  event,  thought  it  more  reasonable  to 
refer  it  to  the  period  when  Corneille's  favor  had  as  yet  been  overcast  by  no 
cloud. 

'  Corneille,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  x.  p.  41.  See,  in  Appendix  B.,  a  letter 
written  to  Corneille,  in  December,  1642,  by  the  learned  Claude  Sarrau, 
counselor  to  the  parliament  of  Paris,  to  request  him  to  write  a  poem  to  the 
memory  of  the  (Jardinai.  This  letter  proves  that,  at  this  period  at  least, 
Corneille's  friends  were  far  fron»  considering  the  ("ardinal  as  his  enemy. 

"  It  is  not  know'n  who  was  the  second  enemy  whose  opposition  Corneille 
feared  for  "  Les  Horaces  ;"  ccmtemporary  documents  mention  him  in  vaguo 
temjfl,  as  "a  person  of  great  distinction." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  173 

the  enemy,  but  none  appeared  ;  the  outburst  of  truth 
had  imposed  silence  upon  envy,  and  it  dared  not  hope 
to  renew,  with  equal  advantage,  a  warfare  the  ridicule 
attendant  upon  which  had  been  more  easily  borne  by 
Richelieu  than  by  Bendery.  The  universal  cry  of  ad- 
miration is  all  that  has  reached  us.  From  that  time 
forth,  for  many  years,  master-pieces  followed  one  another 
in  quick  succession,  without  obstacle,  and  almost  with- 
out interruption.  We  no  longer  have  to  look  for  the  his- 
tory of  the  stage  amidst  a  chaotic  heap  of  crude  concep- 
tions in  which  we  vainly  strive  to  discover  a  single  scin- 
tillation of  genius  or  evidence  of  improvement  ;  these 
children  of  darkness  still  venture  to  show  themselves  for 
a  brief  period  after  the  dawn  of  day;  they  may  even 
temporarily  obtain  the  support  of  the  wavering  taste  of  a 
public  which  is  capable  of  admiring  tinsel  even  after 
having  done  homage  to  the  splendor  of  pure  gold  ;  but 
such  works,  henceforward,  leave  no  trace  of  their  exist- 
ence in  the  history  of  the  art,  and  yield  to  the  productions 
of  genius  all  that  space  which  they  had  formerly  usurped. 
Until  the  advent  of  Racine,  the  history  of  the  stage  is 
contained  in  the  life  of  Corneille  ;  and  the  biography  of 
Corneille  is  wholly  written  in  his  works.  Though  forced 
for  a  time  to  stand  forward  in  defense  of  the  "  Cid,"  he 
withdrew  immediately  afterward  into  that  personal  ob- 
scurity which  was  most  congenial  to  the  simplicity  of  his 
manners  ;  and  in  the  monuments  of  his  genius  we  are 
alone  able  to  trace  the  efforts  which  he  made  to  avoid 
the  importunate  clamors  of  criticism,  which  ever  lies  in 
ambush  on  the  path  of  a  great  man,  and  is  constantly  on 
the  watch  to  reveal  his  slightest  errors  or  mistakes. 

"  Au  '  Cid'  persecute  '  Cinna'  doit  sa  naissance.'" 


'   Bnileau,  "  Epîtrc  à  Racine." 


174  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

and  already,  in  "  Horace,"  Corneille,  abandoning  that 
imitation  for  which  he  had  been  so  virulently  assailed,* 
goes  forward  trusting  to  his  own  powers,  and  confident 
of  his  own  resources.  In  the  "  Cid,"  great  scandal  had 
been  occasioned  by  the  triumph  of  love — a  triumph  so 
long  resisted,  and  so  imperfectly  achieved  ;  in  "  Horace," 
love  will  be  punished  for  its  impotent  rebellion  against 
the  most  cruel  laws  of  honor  ;  in  "  Cinna,"  as  if  in  ex- 
piation of  Chimène's  weakness,  all  other  considerations 
are  sacrij5ced  to  the  implacable  duty  of  avenging  a  fa- 
ther; and  finally,  in  "  Polyeucte,"  duty  triumphs  in  all 
its  loveliness  and  purity,  and  the  sacrifices  of  Polyeucte, 
of  Pauline,  and  of  Sévère,  do  not  cost  them  a  single 
virtue.  At  the  same  time,  the  circle  of  Corneille's  ideas 
becomes  enlarged  ;  his  style  reaches  an  elevation  commen- 
surate with  the  loftiness  of  his  thoughts,  and  becomes 
more  chaste,  perhaps  without  any  care  on  his  part  ;  his 
expressions  increase  in  correctness  and  precision  under 
the  influence  of  clearer  ideas  and  more  energetic  feel- 
ings ;  and  his  genius,  henceforth  in  possession  of  all  its 
resources,  advances  easily  and  tranquilly  in  the  midst  of 
the  highest  conceptions. 

Like  the  "  Cid,"  "  Polyeucte"  was  marked  by  beauties 
of  a  character  previously  unknown,  and  well  calculated 
to  astound  the  regularity  of  those  supreme  tribunals  of 
good  taste  and  bon  ton,  which,  with  the  code  of  proprie- 
ties in  their  hand,  gave  the  law  to  the  passions  and  emo- 
tions of  the  soul.  It  seemed  as  though  Christian  ideas 
could  not,  with  any  decency,  be  introduced  upon  a  stage 
of  which  Paganism  had  taken  such  complete  possession 
that  no  one  dared  to  utter  the  name  of  God  except  in 
the  plural  number.     Voiture,  who  was  appointed  to  con- 

'  Sco  tlie  various  pamjihlcls  against  the  "  Ciil." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  175 

vey  to  Corneille  the  opinion  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet, 
at  which  ho  had  read  his  piece,  told  him  that  "  its  Chris- 
tianity had  especially  given  extreme  offense."  '■  A  well- 
educated  man,  brutally  interrupted  a  sacrifice  at  which 
the  governor  of  the  province  and  the  favorite  of  the  Em- 
peror were  present,  could  not  fail  to  be  thought  very 
much  at  variance  with  polite  usage,  at  the  Hotel  de 
Rambouillet,  and  Bishop  Grodeau  condemned  the  fury  of 
Polyeucte,  less,  probably,  because  he  was  a  bishop  than 
in  his  character  of  "a  man  of  honor,"*  who  was  aware 
of  the  importance  of  the  duty  of  behaving  like  the  rest 
of  the  world.  Alarmed  by  this  disapprobation.  Corneille 
wished  to  withdraw  his  piece,  and  only  consented  to  its 
performance  on  the  entreaty  of  one  of  the  actors,  "who 
did  not  play  in  it,"  says  Fontenelle,  "  because  he  was  so 
bad  a  performer."  ^ 

"  Pompée"  followed  "  Polyeucte,"  and  the  "  Menteur" 
followed  "  Pompée."  Spanish  literature  shared  with  Cor- 
neille the  honor  of  the  first  French  tragedy  and  comedy.* 
Genius  is  evidently  as  necessary  for  selection  and  imita- 
tion as  for  invention  ;  for  although  Spanish  literature  was 
open  to  all  the  wits  of  the  age.  Corneille  alone  was  able 
to  derive  from  it  the  "  Cid"  and  the  "  Menteur."  It  is 
not  by  the  arrangement  of  its  plot,  or  by  the  truth  of  its 
sentiments,  that  the  "  Menteur"  is  distinguished  from 
Corneille's  earlier  cornedies.     In  many  of  these  latter, 


'  Fontenelle,  "  Vie  dc  Corneille,"  p.  103. 

*  A  man  of  Jioiwr  {honnctc  homme.)  was  then  synonymous  with  a  man  of 
the  loorld.  Saint  Evrcmond  used  to  say  :  "  To  be  a  man  of  honor  is  incom- 
patible with  good  conduct." 

^  This  actor  was,  nevertheless,  a  man  of  ability.  His  name  was  Haute- 
roche,  and  he  had  written  several  plays  ;  viz,  "  Crispin  Médecin,"  the  "Es- 
prit Follet,"  the  "  Cocher  Supposé,"  and  others. 

■*  The  "  Menteur"  is  an  imitation  of  a  Spanish  comedy  called  "  La  Sos- 
pechosa  Verdad"  (the  "  Suspected  Truth")  ascribed  by  some  to  Lope  de 
Vega,  by  others  to  Pedro  de  Roxas,  and  by  others  to  Don  Juan  d'Alarcon. 


176  LIFE  AND  WHITINGS  OF 

the  rules  are  as  carefully  observed  ;  unity  of  place  is 
more  so  in  the  "  Place  Royale,"  and  unity  of  time  in  the 
"  Suivante  ;"  but  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  "  Menteur" 
arises  from  the  portraiture  of  a  real,  well-known  charac- 
ter, and  Corneille  once  more  taught  the  public  to  enjoy 
the  charms  of  truth.  Before  the  time  of  Hardy,  comedy 
had  been  gay,  but  licentious  ;  after  Hardy,  it  was  licen- 
tious and  melancholy  :  and  Corneille,  by  rendering  it 
more  pure,  may  perhaps  have  made  it  somewhat  more 
sober.  Deprived  of  the  unfailing  resource  of  the  coarse 
witticisms  of  valets  and  the  scandalous  adventures  of 
their  masters,  comedy  had  sought  its  means  of  effect  in 
the  whimsical  exaggeration  of  ridiculous  characters  ;  and 
Corneille,  who,  in  the  "  Suivante,"  had  depicted,  with 
much  wit,  and  nicety,  the  troubles  of  a  shameful  coward, 
afterward  condescended,  in  obedience  to  the  taste  of  his 
times,  to  use  the  extravagant  gibberish  which  constitu- 
ted the  humor  of  the  "  Matamore."  Desmarets,  though 
carefully  preserving  this  character  in  his  comedy  of  the 
"  Visionnaires,"  had  connected  with  it  a  host  of  idiots  of 
the  same  description,'  and  their  vagaries,  by  their  allu- 
sions to  the  current  jokes  of  the  day,  gained  his  piece  the 
name  of  the  "  inimitable  comedy."  It  was  thought  that 
Desmarets  had  disfigured  these  characters  by  falling  into 
error  as  to  the  kind  of  comedy  that  might  be  derived  from 
tliem.  It  was  felt,  however,  that  the  truly  comic  con- 
sisted in  this,  and  Corneille  was  the  first  to  carry  the  idea 
into  action. 

After  this  attempt,  which  probably  arose  from  a  desire 
felt  by  Corneille  to  vanquish  his  rivals  in  a  style  of  com- 
position in  which  he  had  hitherto  been  only  their  equal, 
tragedy  resumed  possession  of  his   genius,   which  had 

'  A  Philidan,  who  fancies  himself  in  love  ;  a  Phalantc,  who  imagines 
himself  to  be  rich  ;  a  Meiitrc,  in  love  with  Alexander  the  Great  ;  and  so  on. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  177 

been,  so  to  speak,  formed  by  it  and  for  its  service  ;  and, 
with  the  exception  of  the  sequel  to  the  "  Menteur," — a 
piece  which  does  not  occupy  a  prominent  position,  either 
in  the  progress  or  decay  of  Corncillc's  dramatic  life — we 
can  discover,  in  his  works,  no  beauty  which  does  not 
belong  to  that  style  in  which  he  achieved  his  greatest 
glory.'  That  glory  had  now  arrived  at  its  climax.  "  Ro- 
dogune"  and  "  Heraclius"^  still  maintained  it  ;  but  be- 
tween these  two  pieces  "  Théodore"  appears,  and  we  are 
thunderstruck  by  so  great  a  fall  after  so  sudden  and  pro- 
digious an  elevation.  His  position  will,  however,  be  re- 
trieved by  two  vigorous  productions;  after  "  Andromède," 
in  favor  of  which  I  shall  not  count  the  success  which  it 
obtained  by  the  novelty  of  its  style  and  the  marvels  of 
its  machinery,'  came  "  Don  Sanche  d'Aragon,"  and  not- 

^  "  Don  Sanche"  is  entirely  in  the  heroic  style. 

^  It  is  well  known  that  the  subject  of  this  piece  is  the  same  as  that  of 
Calderon's  drama,  entitled,  "  En  Esta  Vida  todo  es  Vcrdad,  y  todo  Men- 
tiza,"  ("  In  this  life  all  is  truth  ami  all  falsehood,")  which  was  performed  in 
Spain  at  a  time  very  different  from  that  at  which  "  Heraclius"  was  per- 
formed in  France.  There  has  been  much  discussion  as  to  whether  Cor- 
neille or  Calderon  were  the  imitator  ;  but  the  priority  must  be  ascribed  to 
Calderon,  according  to  all  the  probabilities,  including  even  the  absurdity  of 
his  piece,  which  will  not  allow  us  to  suppose  that  he  had  a  rational  model 
beneath  his  eyes.  It  is  easy  to  understand  why  Corneille,  who  is  so  exact 
in  such  matters,  does  not  speak  of  his  borrowings  in  this  case,  when  we 
consider  that  he  has  merely  adopted  the  idea  of  making  Heraclius  the  son 
of  Maurice,  and  having  him  brought  up  with  a  son  of  F^iocas,  so  that  the 
latter  can  not  distinguish  one  from  the  other;  he  has  also  copied  a  few  lines 
which  result  from  this  position  :  in  other  respects  there  is  not  the  slightest 
resemblance  in  the  plot,  or  in  the  events  of  the  proscenium  which  Corneille 
has  taken  no  pains  to  render  in  agreement  with  liistory.  It  might  be  sup- 
posed that  Corneille  knew  nothing  of  Calderon'-s  piece,  except  from  some 
extract  sent  into  France  at  the  tune  of  the  performance,  from  which  he 
might  have  derived  the  idea  of  the  leading  feature  of  the  plot,  and  a  few 
distinctive  lines  of  the  dialogue.  In  support  of  this  supposition,  it  is  said 
that  Calderon's  piece  was  not  printed  luitil  after  1645,  the  time  of  the  per- 
formance of  "  Heraclius."  See  p.  35  of  the  advertisement  to  the  edition  of 
Gomeille's  works  published  in  1758. 

'  This  "  ravishing  piece,"  to  use  the  expressions  of  the  newspapers  of  the 
time  (see  the  "  Gazette  do  France"  for  1050),  was,  nevertheless,  not  the 
first  French  drama,  into  which  music  and  inachinciy  were  introduced,  which 

ii*      . 


178  LIFE  iVND  WRITINGS  OF 

withstanding  that  "refusal  of  an  illustrious  suffrage,'" 
which,  in  Corneille's  opinion,  was  fatal  to  the  success  of 
this  drama,  we  feel  again,  when  reading  it,  some  of  those 
proud  einotions  which  are  kindled  in  the  soul  by  the 
magnificent  poetry  of  the  "  Cid."°  "  Mcomède,"  more 
imposing  and  more  original,  "  is  perhaps,"  says  Vol- 
taire, "  one  of  the  strongest  proofs  of  Corneille's  genius." 
Never,  indeed,  has  Corneille  thrown  so  sustained  and 
pathetic  an  interest  into  the  mere  portraiture  of  a  great 
character,  without  any  aid  from  external  circumstances  ; 
and  never  has  he  so  strikingly  manifested  the  power  of  a 

had  been  performed  on  the  Parisian  stage.  Hardy  had  introduced  choruses 
into  some  of  his  tragedies,  and,  macliiriery  into  his  pastrols,  and  it  appears 
that  all  these  accessories  were  combined  in  the  "  Mariage  d'Orphée  et 
d'Eurydice,  ou  la  grande  Journée  des  Machines,"  performed  in  1640,  ten 
years  before  the  representation  of"  Andromède."  Besides  the  difference  in. 
merit  between  the  two  pieces  (although  Corneille's  was  bad  enough),  there 
was  certainly  a  great  diiference  between  the  expense  incurred,  for  the  per- 
formance of  "  Orphée,"  by  the  comedians  of  the  Marais  and  the  Hotel  de 
Bourgogne,  and  that  incurred  by  the  Court,  for  whom  "  Andromède"  had  been 
composed,  and  in  whose  presence  it  was  first  performed.  Particular  notice 
was  taken  of  a  great  star  of  Venus,  in  which  that  goddess  descended  upon  the 
stagCj  and  the  brilliancy  of  which  illuminated  the  entire  theatre.  It  appears 
that  plays  of  this  kind  gave  great  alarm  at  first  to  the  devout  ;  but  their 
scruples  were  so  very  soon  dissipated  that,  as  the  "  Gazette  de  France"  in- 
forms us,  "  the  most  considerable  persons  of  this  city  no  sooner  saw  the 
field  opened  to  so  innocent  a  diversion,  than  there  were  few,  of  all  conditions, 
both  ecclesiastical  and  secular,  who  did  not  desire  to  enjoy  it." 

'  The  approbation  of  the  great  Condé.  This  piece,  as  it  appears,  suc- 
ceeded at  first  ;  and  Corneille  attributes  the  coolness  which  followed  its 
early  success  to  the  distaste  which  the  prince  manifested  to  "  Don  Sanche." 
"  Corneille  should  have  remembered,"  says  Voltaire,  "  that  the  distaste  and 
criticisms  of  Cardinal  Kichelieu,  a  man  of  more  weight  in  literature  than 
the  great  Coudé,  had  not  lieen  able  to  injure  the  '  Cid.'  "  The  failure  of 
"  Don  Sanche"  must,  probably,  be  ascribed  to  its  great  deficiency  in  inter- 
est, which  was  at  first  unperceived  through  the  splendor  of  the  principal 
personages  of  the  drama.  The  same  cause  was  afterward  injurious  to  the 
success  of  ''  Nicomède." 

''  Although  "  Don  Sanche"  is  nothing  more  than  a  heroic  comedy,  the 
beauties  which  are  discernible  in  it,  though  its  composition  is  cold  and  its 
plot  undignified,  arc  not  unworthy  of  tragedy,  at  least  of  that  chivalrous 
tragedy,  vvhicli,  being  generally  less  imposing  than  the  other  kind  in  the 
magnitude  of  the  interest  involved,  i.<:  sustained  only  by  the  loftiness  of  its 
characters.     Carloa,  Iho  hero  of  tlic  piece  loves  the  queen  and  is  beloved 


PIEERE  CORNEILLE.  179 

spring  of  action  which  he  has  better  employed  elsewhere. 
The  failure  of  "  Pertharite"  was  the  first  blow  given  to 
that  respect  with  which  the  public  were  inspired  by  the 
great  name  of  Corneille,  and  which  had  even  saved 
*'  Théodore"  from  failure.'  But  even  Corneille  no  longer 
defended  himself;  in  "  Pertharite,"  no  beauty  concealed 
the  defects  of  an  incomplete  and  somewhat  factitious 
system,  the  riches  of  which  Corneille  alone  had  been  able 
to  utilize  and  parade  with  sufficient  magnificence  to  dis- 
guise its  imperfections. 

We  have  seen  Corneille  raise  himself,  so  to  speak,  by 
a  single  bound  to  that  proud  elevation  at  which  he  tower- 
ed above  his  age  ;  we  behold  him  falling  back  again  be- 
low the  standard  of  taste  and  enlightenment  for  which 
his  age  was  indebted  to  his  labors  and  example.  Now 
that  his  mission  is  finished,  and  he  has  impressed  upon 
the  drama  a  movement  with  which  he  is  no  longer  able 
to  keep  pace,  I  wish  to  discover  and  describe  with  pre- 
cision the  true  character  of  this  movement,  communi- 
cated by  a  man  of  genius  to  men  of  genius  a^  powerful 
as  his  own;  and  the  peculiar  nature  of  that  genius, 
which,  after  having  raised  its  art  and  its  audience  to  an 
equal  elevation,  was  unable  to  keep  its  place  in  the  region 
to  which  it  had  carried  them.     How  came  it  that  Cor- 


by her  ;  but  his  birth  does  not  permit  him  to  aspire  to  her  hand.  The 
queen  is  anxious  that  he  should  at  least  decide  her  fate,  and  choose  for  her 
between  three  suitors  who  have  asked  her  in  marriage.  She  gives  him  the 
ring  which  is  to  be  the  mark  of  her  choice.  Carlos,  despising  the  rage  of 
the  suitors,  who  are  indignant  at  the  power  intrusted  to  him,  declares  that 
he  will  relinquish  the  ring  in  favor  only  of  the  most  worthy  : 

"  Et  je  le  garde A  qui,  Carlos  1 — A  mon  vainqueur." 

'  "  Theodore"  was  not  an  entire  failure.  "  The  perfonr.ance  of  this  tra- 
gedy was  not  very  successful,''  says  Corneille,  in  his  examination  of  ''  Théo- 
dore ;"  but  when  speaking  of  "Pertharite,"  he  thus  writes:  "The  suc- 
cess of  this  tragedy  was  so  unfortunate  that,  to  spare  myself  the  pain  of  re- 
membering it,  I  shall  Bay  almost  nothing  about  itk"  See  his  Examination 
of  «  Pertharite." 


180  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

neille,  the  father  of  our  drama,  was  not  also  its  lawgiver  ? 
What  were  the  causes  which,  after  having  made  him  so 
great,  prevented  him  from  becoming  greater  still  ? 

If  Corneille  accomplished  the  revolution  which  regen- 
erated our  drama,  or  rather,  if  he  exercised   that  cre- 
ative action  which  liberated  our  drama  from  its  primi- 
tive chaos,  it  was  because  he  introduced  into  his  writings 
truth,  which  was  then  banished  from  all  poetical  compo- 
sitions.    That  energy,  that  imposing  majesty,  those  sub- 
lime soarings  of  genius,  all  those  qualities  which  gained 
Corneille  the  title  of  "  The  Great,"  are  personal  merits 
which  have  immortalized  the  name  of  the  poet,  without 
preserving  after  him  any  dominant  influence  over  dra- 
matic  art.     Tragedy  might  be  beautiful  otherwise  than 
as   Corneille  conceived  it,  and   Corneille  has  remained 
great  without  preventing  other  great  men  from  taking  a 
place  beside  him.     But  tragedy  could  gain  life  only  by 
repairing  to  that  fountain  of  truth  which  Corneille  was 
the  first  to  discover.     Before  his  appearance  every  day 
seemed  to  remove  the  public  and  the  poets  farther  from 
it  ;  and  every  day  bviried  the  treasures  of  the  human 
heart   more  deeply  beneath  the  fantastic  inventions  of 
false  wit  and  a  disordered  imagination.     Corneille  was 
the  first  to  reveal  these  treasures  to  dramatic  art,  and 
to  teach  it  how  to   use   them.     On   this   ground   he   is 
rightfully  regarded  as  the  father,  and  the  "  Cid"  as  the 
origin  of  French  tragedy. 

But  was  Corneille's  reason,  though  sufficiently  strong 
to  pierce  through  the  dark  clouds  of  error,  strong  enough 
to  dissipate  them  entirely  ?  8ure  of  always  overcoming 
the  enemy  whom  he  attacked,  was  he  always  sufficiently 
enlightened  to  recognize  his  real  enemy  ?  and  did  not  his 
character  too  froqno.ntly  rondfr  him  subservient  to  nn 
age  over  which  his  genius  had  made  him  so  superior  ? 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  181 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  what  Corneille's  genius 
would  have  become,  arfd  to  divine  either  the  extraordi- 
nary beauties  which  it  might  have  unfolded,  or  the  flights 
of  which  it  might  have  been  guilty,  if  he  had  boldly 
abandoned  himself  to  his  own  guidance.  As  regarded 
his  own  personal  knowledge.  Corneille  was  in  almo.st  the 
same  position  as  Shakspeare  and  Calderon  ;  but  his  age 
and  country  were  more  civilized  than  theirs,  and  criti- 
cism availed  itself,  for  the  instruction  of  the  poet,  of  all 
the  acquirements  of  his  age  and  country.  Corneille  fear- 
ed and  braved  criticism,  and  provoked  it  by  his  defiance; 
he  would  allow  none  of  its  censures,  but  he  did  all  he 
could  to  avoid  them.  Taking  warning  by  a  first  attack, 
he  no  longer  ventured  to  hazard,  for  fear  of  Scudéry,  all 
that  France  would  probably  have  applauded.  Incapable 
of  yielding  to  his  adversaries,  and  angry  at  being  obliged 
to  combat  them,  he  withdrew  from  the  path  in  which  he 
was  likely  to  meet  with  them  ;  and  though  this  perhaps 
involuntary  prudence  saved  him  from  some  dangerous 
quicksands,  it  undoubtedly  deprived  him  of  soinc  precious 
discoveries.  The  success  of  the  "  Cid"  did  not  efface,  in 
his  mind,  the  censure  of  the  Academy  ;  in  that  drama,  he 
had  allowed  himself  to  depict,  with  irresistible  truth,  the 
transports  of  passion  ;  but  when  he  found  Chimène's  love 
so  severely  condemned,  Corneille,  doubtless  alarmed  at 
what  he  might  find  in  the  weakness  of  the  heart,  looked 
in  future  only  to  its  strength  ;  he  sought  for  the  resisting 
element  in  man,  and  not  for  the  yielding  element,  and 
thus  became  acquainted  with  only  the  half  of  man.  And 
as  admiration  is  the  feeling  chiefly  excited  by  heroic  re- 
sistance, it- was  to  admiration  that  the  dramatic  genius 
of  Corneille  principally  addressed  itself. 

Boiloau  did  not  consider  admiration  to  bo  one  of  the 
tragic  passions.     "  Corneille,"  he  says,  "  has  not  aimed, 


182  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

like  the  poets  of  ancient  tragedy,  at  moving  his  audience 
to  pity  or  terror,  but  at  exciting  in  their  souls,  by  the 
subUmity  of  his  ideas  and  the  beauty  of  his  sentiments, 
a  certain  admiration  which  many  persons,  and  young 
persons  especially,  frequently  like  far  better  than  real 
tragic  passions.'"  Like  Boileau,  Voltaire  and  his  school 
are  of  opinion  that  admiration  is  a  cold  feeling,  very 
unsuited  to  dramatic  effect.  I  reject  this  idea,  not  only 
because  it  deprives  the  drama  of  one  of  its  noblest  springs 
of  action,  but  because  it  attacks  the  true  principles  of 
art. 

It  is  one  of  the  errors  of  our  literary  metaphysics  to 
seek  the  source  of  the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from 
the  drama,  and  particularly  from  tragedy,  in  our  own 
personal  recollections,  and  in  a  return  upon  ourselves 
and  our  individual  affections.  According  to  this  prin- 
ciple, it  has  been  thought  that  the  feelings  most  familiar 
to  -man,  j^hose  which  his  position  enables  him  most  fre- 
quently to  experience,  are  also  those  which  it  is  most 
suitable  to  present  to  his  attention.  This  principle  re- 
ceived great  confirmation  from  the  authority  of  Boileau, 
when  in  spite  of  all  that  the  ancients  have  written,  and 
in  reliance  upon  an  experience  which  was  not  his  own, 
he  preferred  love  to  all  other  tragic  passions  f  this  prin- 
ciple was  sustained  by  the  brilliant  genius  of  Voltaire 
and  the  pathetic  effects  which  he  educed  from  the  pas- 
sions most  familiar  to  the  human  heart  ;  this  same  prin- 
ciple, in  fmc,  other  writers,  led  astray  by  the  opinion  of 
that  great  man,  and,  as  they  believed,  by  his  example 
also,  have  carried  out  to  consequences  which  Voltaire 
himself  disavowed.       They  have   imagined  that  heroic 

'  Boileau,  "  Lettre  à  Perrault  sur  les  anciens  et  les  modernes." 
'  •'  De  cette  paKsion  la  seiiilile  peinture, 

Est  poiir  allor  au  cu;\ir  la  rtnilto  la  plus  aire'.'* 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  .  •      Ig? 

tragedy,  the  adventures  of  kings  and  princes,  the  great 
vicissitudes  of  fortune,  being  too  far  remote  from  us  and 
the  dangers  to  which  we  may  be  exposed,  can  affect  us 
only  slightly  ;  and  they  have  invented  the  tragedy  of 
common  life,  in  which  every  man  may  recognize  his  own 
household  and  its  accessories,  with  what  happened  to 
him  on  the  previous  day,  and  what  will  happen  to  him 
on  the  morrow,  and  may  thus  tremble,  on  his  own 
account,  at  the  dangers  incurred  by  persons  who  bear  so 
striking  a  resemblance  to  himself.  If  the  principle  were 
just,  these  _  writers  would  be  right;  and  if  the  emotion 
which  most  thoroughly  overcomes  us  be  the  greatest 
pleasure  that  the  stage  can  afford,  they  have  certainly 
discovered,  as  regards  many  persons,  the  secret  by  which 
this  pleasure  may  be  supplied. 

But  there  is  another  source  of  pleasure  to  which  the 
arts  should  repair  :  a  pleasure  the  more  desirable,  be- 
cause it  is  more  complete  and  prolonged,  because  it  de- 
velops and  perfects  the  faculty  which  it  calls  into  play, 
whereas  violent  emotions  deader!  and  obliterate  it.  Our 
faculties  have  been  given  to  "us  for  our  use  ;  and  the 
pleasure  connected  with  the  exercise  of  each  one  of  them 
renders  its  use  agreeable  to  us,  and  holds  them  all  in 
readiness  to  subserve  our  varions  wants.  As  these  wants 
are  seldom  sufficient  to  give  them  full  employment,  and 
to  develop  all  their  energy,  these  same  faculties  inces- 
santly demand  of  us  suitable  opportunities  for  bringing 
them  into  action  ;  and,  in  the  repose  in  which  they  are 
left  by  the  tranquillity  of  our  life,  they  seek  to  exercise 
themselves  upon  objects  in  conformity  to  their  nature, 
although  foreign  to  the  immediately  useful  end  which  it 
is  not  always  incumbent  upon  them  to  attain.  Thus  the 
mind,  not  finding  means  for  constant  employment  in  at- 
tention to  our  own  interests,  yields  itself  to  purely  spec- 


184  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

ulative  combinations,  which  have  no  connection  with  our 
individual  position  ;  and  this  exercise  of  the  soul,  being 
devoid  of  all  reference  to  ourselves,  is  one  of  the  liveliest 
pleasures  that  man  can  experience.  With  the  emotions 
produced  by  our  personal  interests  are  mingled  incite- 
ments of  desire,  fear,  and  hope,  destined  to  stimulate  us 
to  action,  which  would  become  intolerable  in  a  position 
with  which  we  had  nothing  to  do,  and  would  absolutely 
destroy  that  lively  but  tranquil  pleasure  which  we  hope 
to  find  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  arts.  Far,  therefore, 
from  bringing  us  back  to  our  own  personal  interests  and 
recollections,  and  to  our  own  individual  position,  the 
effect  of  the  drama  ought  to  be  to  divert  our  minds  en- 
tirely therefrom  ;  far  from  concentrating  our  attention 
upon  the  narrow  circle  of  our  real  existence,  it  should, 
on  the  contrary,  make  us  lose  sight  of  it  in  order  to 
transport  us  into  our  possible  existence,  and  occupy  us 
not  what  really  occurs  to  us,  but  with  what  we  may  be 
— not  with  the  particular  circumstances  which  have  call- 
ed our  faculties  into  operation,  but  with  those  facul- 
ties themselves,  as  they  may  be  displayed  when  every 
thing  stimulates,  and  nothing  checks,  their  development. 
Our  enjoyment  is  then  derived  from  ourselves,  and  we 
revel  in  the  exalted  feeling  of  our  existence,  of  that  state 
in  which,  as  Mme.  de  Lafayette  used  to  say,  "to  be 
happy,  it  is  only  necessary  to  exist;"  and  this  happiness 
is  so  thoroughly  the  result  of  the  movement  imparted  to 
our  soul,  independently  of  the  object  by  which  it  is  oc- 
casioned, that  any  idea  of  reality,  connected  with  that 
object,  would  destroy  our  pleasure,  and  change  it  into  an 
entirely  different  feeling.  If  the  illusion  could  carry  us 
so  far  away  as  to  make  us  believe  that  we  really  saw  in 
lTi])po]yte,  that  which  Ihe  drama  presents  to  us  as  a 
fiction,  namely,  a  virtuous  young  man,  the  victim  of  a 


PIEHRE  CORNEILLE.  1S5 

most  infamous  calumny,  could  we  take  delight  in  such 
a  spectacle  ?  "Would  it  not  inspire  us,  on  the  contrary, 
with  the  bitterest  emotion  and  the  most  cruel  anguish  ? 
Should  we  take  pleasure  in  beholding  Cleopatra  actually 
planning,  in  our  presence,  the  death  of  her  two  sons  ? 
Horror-stricken,  wo  should  turn  away  our  eyes  from  such 
a  monster.  "When  the  haughty  Nicomcde,  bound  in  chains 
by  cowards,  and  delivered  over  to  that  Flaminius  whom 
he  has  degraded  in  our  eyes  by  his  contempt,  is  sent 
captive  to  Rome,  which  he  had  so  boldly  defied — when, 
rising  superior  to  this  humiliating  reverse  of  fortune,  he 
exclaims  : 

"J'irai,  j'irai,  Seigneur,  vous  le  voulez  ainsi; 
Et  j'y  serai  plus  roi  que  vous  n'êtes  ici," 

if  we  could  believe  in  the  truth  of  what  the  poet  repre- 
sents to  us,  would  not  the  pleasure  which  is  occasioned 
us  by  the  magnanimity  of  the  hero  be  stifled,  or  at  least 
diminished,  by  the  anger  which  we  should  feel  at-his  un- 
worthy position  ?  But  we  believe  nothing  ;  we  content 
ourselves  with  feeling,  without  mingling  any  thing  with 
that  impression  which  is  sufficient  to  absorb  our  whole 
soul,  and  repel  all  extraneous  ideas. 

Just  as,  in  bodily  exercises,  any  insignificant  object 
that  may  be  presented  to  our  aim,  concentrates  our  entire 
attention  upon  the  mere  development  of  our  physical 
powers  ;  so,  in  these  mental  games,  which  are  solely  in- 
tended to  promote  the  exercise  of  our  moral  faculties,  we 
engage  with  that  vigorous  satisfaction  which  springs  from 
greater  energy  of  existence.  If  a  little  pain  be  mingled 
with  this  satisfaction,  the  evil  of  suffering  is  then,  never- 
theless, no  more  contained  in  the  movement  which  ani- 
mates us,  than  the  pleasure  of  feeling  ;  and  this  evil  does 
not  resume  its  true  nature  unless  too  acute  a  pain  warn 


186  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

US  of  the  presence  of  an  enemy — unless  an  innocent  con- 
flict be  changed  into  a  dangerous  combat,  and  disturb  us 
with  a  consciousness  of  our  weakness,  instead  of  occupy- 
ing us  with  the  employment  of  our  strength. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  the  conformity  of  the  scene  to  our 
own  particular  destiny  and  personal  feelings,  which  con- 
stitutes the  true  merit  of  tragedy  ;  it  consists  far  more  in 
its  conformity  to  human  destiny  in  general,  and  to  our 
intellectual  and  sensible  nature — in  its  agreement,  not 
with  the  feelings  with  which  we  are  best  acquainted, 
but  with  those  which  we  are  most  capable  of  experienc- 
ing. Tragedy  may  demand  of  man  all  that  his  heart 
contains  ;  it  may  excite  tears  of  pity,  the  shudder  of  ter- 
ror, the  impetuosity  of  courage,  the  emotions  of  love, 
indignation  against  vice,  maternal  affection,  filial  piety  ; 
all  that  has  been  given  us,  for  our  preservation  or  our 
morality,  bears  to  dramatic  art  the  tribute  of  that  super- 
abundant force  which,  during  the  course  of  a  tranquil 
life,  we. so  seldom  find  opportunity  completely  to  employ. 

Among  these  feelings  there  is  one  which  is  the  perfec- 
tion of  our  nature,  the  last  degree  of  soul  enjoyment,  of 
an  enjoyment  which  is  the  delightful  proof  of  its  noble 
origin  and  its  glorious  destiny.  This  feeling  is  admira- 
tion, the  sentiment  of  the  beautiful,  the  love  of  all  that 
is  great,  enthusiasm  for  all  that  is  virtuous  ;  it  awakens 
us  to  emotion  at  the  aspect  of  a  master-piece,  excites  us 
at  the  narrative  of  a  noble  action,  and  intoxicates  us  with 
the  mere  idea  of  a  virtue  which  is  eternally  separated 
from  us  by  an  interval  of  three  thousand  years.  Will 
such  a  feeling  allow  the  drama  to  be  cold  and  the  spec- 
tator to  be  passionless  ?  Will  that  be  too  calm  a  move- 
ment for  tragedy  which,  hurrying  the  whole  soul  beyond 
itself,  snatching  it,  so  to  speak,  from  earth  and  the  bonds 
which  chain  it  thereto,  transports  it,  as  with  a  single 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE^  187 

Lound,  to  the  loftiest  regions  within  reach  of  its  attain- 
ment ?  Put  the  question  to  any  man  who  has  just  ex- 
perienced this  sublime  feeling,  to  any  man  who  has  just 
heard  the  QuHl  mourut  I  of  old  Horace  thundered  forth 
in  all  its  energy.  "  We  are,"  says  Raymond  do  Saint- 
Marc,  "  at  once  surprised  and  enchanted  to  find  ourselves 
so  brave  ;  and  it  is  certain  that,  if  we  were  placed  in  the 
position  of  the  elder  Horace,  and  found  ourselves  animated 
for  a  moment  by  the  same  greatness  of  soul  as  inspired 
him,  we  could  not  prevent  ourselves  from  feeling  tacitly 
proud  of  a  courage  which  we  have  not  had  the  happiness 
to  possess  before."  No  !  we  are  not  surprised  ;  we  are 
not  proud  ;  we  feel  no  return  upon  ourselves  and  our 
habitual  existence  ;  we  live  the  new  life  into  which  the 
poet  has  transported  us  ;  but  this  life  becomes  our  own, 
and  we  feel  it  grow  more  animated  because  it  has  found 
within  us  faculties  capable  of  more  powerful  development. 
It  is  not  the  grandeur  or  the  virtue  of  old  Horace  which 
elevates  us  ;  it  is  our  own  grandeur,  our  own  virtue  ;  it 
is  that  feeling  which,  in  real  life,  finding  itself  too  often 
crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  interest  or  of  circum- 
stances, here  plays  at  will  in  the  open  fields  of  the  imag- 
ination, and  attains,  without  eftbrt,  that  exaltation  which 
is  the  last  degree  of  happiness  placed  within  our  power 
to  experience.  Intoxicated  with  delight,  we  then  bring 
the  emotion  which  animates  us  to  bear  upon  all  surround- 
ing objects  ;  and  there  is  not  perhaps  a  single  man  capa- 
ble of  fully  appreciating  the  sublime  beauties  of  Cor- 
neille, who  has  not  felt  this  on  witnessing  the  perform- 
ance of  his  dramas.  At  the  height  to  which  he  raises 
us,  no  low  idea  is  able  to  reach  us,  no  expression  appears 
trivial  in  our  eyes  ;  transported  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
Polyeucte  even  to  an  idea  of  the  presence  of  God,  im- 
bued with  a  sense  of  His  greatness  and  of  the  danger  of 


188  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

His  wrath,  we  are  conscious  of  no  impropriety  in  the  line, 

"  Tout  beau,  Pauline  ;  il  entend  vos  paroles." 

This  expression,  which  would  be  undignified  even  in  a 
familiar  conversation,  loses  its  vulgarity  in  a  sublime  dia- 
logue ;  divested  of  its  personal  character,  it  is  nothing  more 
than  the  symbol  of  an  idea  which  kindles  our  emotion — 
the  strong  ajid  natural  expression  of  a  deep  feeling;  and 
so  long  as  it  conveys  this  powerfully  to  us,  all  other  con- 
siderations are  set  aside.  After  the  admirable  scene  be- 
tween Horace  and  Curiace  when  a  bout  to  engage  in  deadly 
conflict,  after  that  simple  development  of  the  highest  sen- 
timents that  can  be  inspired  by  the  most  extraordinary 
position,  Camille  and  Sabine  stop  the  two  warriors  with- 
out shaking  their  resolution  ;  they  afflict  them  by  their 
powerless  effort,  and  only  delay  a  scene  which  they  can 
not  prevent.  Upon  this,  old  Horace  comes  up,  and  ex- 
claims : 

Qu'est  ceci,  mes  enfants?  écoutez-vous  vos  flammes  1 
Et  perdez- vous  encor  le  temps  avec  des  femmes  1" 

"We  know  that  a  combat  is  in  prospect,  that  it  must  take 
place  ;  we  almost  feel  conscious  of  the  necessity  of  coming 
at  once  to  this  inevitable  event  ;  and  it  is  old  Horace  who, 
with  the  imposing  authority  and  courageous  reason  of  a 
father,  steps  in  to  determine  the  fatal  moment  ;  and  this 
moment  is  invested  with  such  grandeur,  that,  in  what- 
ever manner  he  may  announce  its  advent,  it  can  not 
detract  from  its  inherent  greatness. 

But  this  emotion,  excited  in  our  breasts  by  beauties  of 
so  lofty  a  nature,  sometimes  disguises  real  defects  which, 
after  a  calmer  examination,  it  is  impossible  not  to  peT- 
ccivc.  Nicomèdo  inaUcs  us  tolerate  Prusias,  and  even 
the  boastful ness  of  that  singular  personage  is  merged  in 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  189 

the  lofty  feelings  awakened  in  us  by  his  courage.  In 
the  midst  of  the  heat  of  admiration  maintained  in  our 
souls  by  Polyeucte,  Sévère,  and  Pauline,  the  baseness 
of  Felix  is  only  a  slight  cloud  which  disappears  before 
it  can  cast  a  chill  over  us  ;  and  all  the  declamations 
of  Corneille  could  not  suddenly  arrest  the  movement  ex- 
cited by  the  beauty  of  her  grief,  and  by  that  remarkable 
entrance  : 

"  César,  prends  garde  à  toi  !" 

If  the  personage  ceases  to  sustain  our  interest,  our  affec- 
tion hastens  to  defend  the  poet  against  our  judgment  : 
part  of  the  admiration  with  which  we  are  inspired  by  the 
heroes  of  Corneille,  has  fastened  upon  Corneille  himself; 
his  name  alone  moves  us  by  powerful  recollections  ;  and 
a  sort  of  passion  surrounds  him  with  a  veil  of  respect  and 
love  which  reason  itself  feels  great  repugnance  to  pierce. 
This  passion  long  warred  in  his  favor  against  the  glory  of 
Racine  ;  it  seemed  as  though  men  feared  to  divert  their 
minds  from  that  kind  of  impressions  with  which  Corneille 
had  filled  their  souls;  and  the  long  injustice  of  his  par- 
tisans, who  felt  wounded  because  a  new  enjoyment  had 
ventured  to  disturb  "  those  old  admirations"  in  which 
they  loved  to  indulge,  has  proved  that  admiration  is  one 
of  those  feelings  which  men  consent  least  willingly  to 
abandon  even  in  the  smallest  degree. 

It  is  also  the  feeling  which  occasions  least  weariness  ; 
as  we  receive  it  without  effort,  we  experience  it  without 
fatigue  ;  a  prolonged  succession  of  pathetic  scenes  will 
make  us  feel  the  necessity  of  repose  far  sooner  than  a 
series  of  lofty  pictures,  each  of  which,  by  raising  our 
soul  to  a  higher  elevation,  renders  us  more  worthy  of 
that  which  is  to  follow.  But  actions  capable  of  exciting 
our  admiration  are,  by  their  very  nature,  ill  adapted  to 


190  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

furnish  very  lengthy  dramatic  scenes  ;  they  us'ually  con- 
sist in  the  triumph  of  power  over  the  obstacle  which  oppose 
personal  interest,  passions,  or  inclinations,  in  the  per- 
formance of  an  important  duty,  or  the  accomplishment 
of  a  great  design.  Now,  power  gives  a  single  blow,  and 
overthrows  its  enemy  ;  the  resistance  of  this  enemy  can 
alone  produce  the  movemeilt  necessary  to  the  duration 
of  the  action.  More  conflicts  of  passion,  and  a  little  more 
weakness  would  have  rendered  Corneille's  heroes  more 
constantly  true  and  dramatic  ;  even  their  virtue,  which 
may  often  be  regarded  as  the  principal  personage  in  the 
piece,  would  have  interested  us  more,  if,  though  equally 
able  to  conquer  it,  had  been  attacked  by  more  potent 
foes,  and  had  visiby  incurred  greater  dangers.  All  the 
vigor" of  his  noble  genius  was  requisite  to  discover  a  suf- 
ficient source  of  interest  in  those  singular  characters 
which  he  alone  could  create  and  sustain  ;  he  alone  has 
succeeded  in  awakening  our  uncertainty  and  curiosity 
by  their  very  inflexibility,  which,  as  it  is  annouced  at 
the  outset,  does  not  permit  them  to  yield  to  the  slightest 
weakness,  and  multiplies  successively  around  them  em- 
barrassments which  ceaselessly  necessitate  greater  and 
more  extraordinary  efforts.  If  we  were  less  convinced 
of  Emilie's  firmness,  we  should  feel  less  alarm  on  her 
account,  at  the  resolution  of  Cinna  to  die  if  she  will  not 
permit  him  to  break  up  the  conspiracy.  In  such  a  strug- 
gle, an  ordinary  character  should  succumb,  and  it  only 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  it  will  sacrifice  its  love  or  its 
vengeance;  but  we  well  know  that  Emilie  will  renounce 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  What  course,  then,  will  she 
pursue  ?  She  hesitates  ;  not  as  to  her  choice,  but  as  to 
her  ijieans  ;  what  shall  it  be?     AVhat  but  this: 

" Qu'il  achève  et  déj^age  sa  foi, 

Et  qu'il  choisisse  après  de  la  mort  ou  de  moi." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  191 

In  order  to  attain  to  this  invincible  power,  which  will 
make  all  around  it  bend  to  its  influence,  a  man  must  ab- 
solutely have  separated  himself  from  all  that  otherwise 
enters  into  the  composition  of  human  nature  ;  he  must 
have  completely  ceased  to  think  of  all  that,  in  real  life, 
occurs  to  alter  the  forms  of  that  ideal  grandeur  of  which 
the  imagination  can  conceive  no  possibility  except  when, 
isolating  it,  so  to  speak,  from  all  the  other  affections,  it 
forgets  that  which  renders  its  realization  so  difficult  and 
so  infrequent.  The  imagination  of  Corneille  had  no  dif- 
ficulty in  lending  itself  to  this  isolation  ;  the  loftiness  of 
his  inventions  was  sustained  by  his  inexperience  in  the 
common  affairs  of  life  ;  as  he  introduced  into  his  own 
ordinary  actions  none  of  those  ideas  which  he  employed 
in  the  creation  of  his  heroes,  so  in  the  conception  of  his 
heroes  he  introduced  none  of  the  ideas  of  which  he  made 
use  in  ordinary  life.  He  did  not  place  Corneille  himself  in 
their  position  :  the  observation  of  nature  did  not  occupy 
his  attention  ;  a  happy  inspiration  frequently  led  him  to 
divine  it;  but  his  unassisted  imagination,  gathering  to- 
gether outlines  of  a  far  more  simple  character,  composed 
for  him  a  sort  of  abstract  model  of  a  single  quality,  a 
being  without  parts,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression, 
capable  of  being  set  in  motion  by  a  single  impulse,  and 
of  proceeding  in  a  single  direction. 

Thus  had  he  formed  for  himself  an  absolute  idea  of 
force  of  soul,  whether  it  be  exerted  for  crime  or  virtue,  of 
patriotism  and  even  of  baseness,  which,  in  the  Felix  of 
"  Polyeucte,"  and  the  Valens  of  "  Théodore,"  is  no  more 
embarrassed  by  scruples  of  honor  than  the  courage  of 
Nicomède  is  checked  by  a  prudential  reflection,  or  the 
patriotism  of  Horace  influenced  by  a  movement  of  sensi- 
bility. TJius,  also,  in  another  kind  of  composition,  the 
great  things  of  the  world  present  themselves  to  Corneille 


192  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

under  an  abstract  form,  which  he  does  not  venture  to  an- 
alyze and  give  to  the  man  who  possesses  them,  a  separate 
existence,  with  which  the  existence  which  he  shares 
in  common  with  the  rest  of  mankind  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  do.  Corneille  has  formed  all  his  characters  in  con- 
formity with  the  principle  expressed  in  the  following 
lines  from  "  Nicomède  :" 

PRUSIAS. 

"  Je  veux  mettre  d'accord  l'amour  et  la  nature, 
Etre  père  et  mari  dans  cette  conjoncture. 

NICOMEDE. 

Seigneur,  voulez-vous  bien  vous  en  fier  à  moi  1 
Ne  soyez  l'un  ni  l'autre. 

PRUSIAS. 

Et  que  dois-je  être  1 

NICOMEDE. 

Roi. 
Reprenez  hautement  ce  noble  caractère  ; 
Un  véritable  roi  n'est  ni  mari  ni  père, 
Il  regarde  son  trône,  et  rien  de  plus.     Régnez." 

Corneille's  kings,  with  the  exception  of  Prusias,  do  no- 
thing hut  reign,  are  incapable  of  any  thing  that  is  not 
directly  connected  with  their  royal  office,  and  seem  to  be 
born  for  no  other  purpose  than  royalty  : 

"  Celles  de  ma  naissance  ont  horreur  des  bassesses  ; 
Leur  sang  tout  généreux  craint  les  molles  adresses," 

says  Rodogune.  When  Charmion,  in  "  La  Mort  de  Pom- 
pée," says  to  Cleopatra  : 

"  L'amour  certes  sur  vous  a  bien  peu  de  puissance," 
she  answers  at  onco  : 

"  Les  princes  ont  cela  de  leur  haute  naissance." 

At  the  height  at  which  the  poet  considers  princes,  he  is 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  193 

able  to  distinguish  them  only  by  the  splendor  which  sur- 
rounds them  ;  he  confounds  this  splendor  with  their  na- 
ture ;  and  without  supposing  them  to  possess  any  other 
than  that  which  belongs  to  their  jank,  he  goes  so  far  as 
to  regulate  the  virtues  according  to  the  order  of  ranks, 
and  to  regard  them  as  attributes  which  a  man  assumes, 
together  with  the  costume  of  a  new  position  in  society. 
Rodelinde,  in  "  Pertharite,"  founds  some  very  serious 
reasoning  upon  the  fact  that 

"  Autre  est  l'ârae  d'un  comte,  autre  est  celle  d'un  roi." 

The  plot  of  "  Agésilas"  turns  upon  the  whim  of  Aglatide, 
who  wishes  to  marry  a  king  instead  of  a  sovereign  prince 
who  is  not  a  king  ;  and  when  we  find  Attila  saying  to  the 
monarchs  whom  he  is  proud  to  hold  beneath  his  yoke, 

"  Et  vous,  rois,  suivez-moi  ;" 

we  can  hardly  suppress  a  smile  at  this  child's  play  of  the 
imagination  of  a  great  man. 

Generally  speaking,  this  imagination  Is  so  exclusively 
struck  by  the  character  or  special  position  which  occupies 
its  notice,  that  it  does  not  allow  Corneille  to  pay  sufficient 
attention  to  those  ideas  which,  by  their  natural  connec- 
tion with  that  position  or  character,  would  be  necessary 
to  render  its  delineation  complete  and  faithful.  Hence 
arises  the  singularity  of  certain  subjects  which  he  selected 
without  the  slightest  solicitude  about  the  odius  or  ridicu- 
lous aspect  under  which  they  may  appear.  Without  de- 
picting to  himself  any  of  the  ideas  associated  with  the 
strange  subject  of  "  Théodore,"  he  beheld  and  represented 
that  virgin  martyr  led  into  an  infamous  place  to  be  hand- 
ed over  to  the  populace  and  the  soldiery  ;  and  in  his  ex- 
amination of  this  drama,  he  expresses  some  astonishment 
at  that  severity  which  would  not  tolerate,  upon  the  stage, 

I 


194  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

"  a  story  which  constitutes  the  chief  ornament  of  the  sec- 
ond  book  of  the  '  Virgins'  of  Saint  Ambrose.  What  would 
have  been  said,"  he  adds,  "  if,  like  that  great  doctor  of 
the  Church,  I  had  represented  that  virgin  in  the  infamous 
place,  if  I  had  described  the  various  agitations  of  her  soul 
while  there,  and  if  I  had  depicted  the  uneasiness  v^'-hich 
she  felt  when  she  first  beheld  the  entrance  of  Didyme  ?" 
If  Corneille  had  had  the  least  suspicion  of  the  feelings 
awakened  by  these  words,  he  would  have  abandoned  the 
idea  of  describing  a  situation,  the  dishonor  of  which  is  its 
slightest  punishment  ;  but  he  saw  in  it  merely  the  gen- 
eral idea  of  dishonor,  stripped  of  all  the  revolting  ideas 
which  accompany  such  a  kind  of  infamy  ;  and  his  Thé- 
odore, as  if  she  were  nothing  but  conscience,  and  were 
threatened  only  with  the  misfortune  of  committing  a  bad 
action,  declares,  with  the  utmost  tranquillity,  that — 

"  Dieu  tout  juste  et  tout  bon,  qui  lit  dans  nos  pensées. 
N'impute  pas  de  crime  aux  actions  forcées." 

She  is  equally  resigned  to  the  thought  of  devoting — 

"  Son  corps  à  l'infamie,  et  sa  main  à  l'encens," 

provided  that  she  be  able  to  retain 

" D'une  âme  résolue, 

A  l'époux  sans  macule  une  épouse  impollue." 

Neither  the  poet  nor  the  virgin  seem  to  have  the  slighest 
notion  that  a  modest  and  chaste  girl  has,  in  such  a  case, 
something  more  to  think  of  than  the  state  of  her  soul  in 
the  eyes  of  G-od,  and  of  her  honor  in  the  eyes  of  men. 

Thus  it  is  that  Corneille  could  never  describe  a  mixed 
feeling,  composed  of  two  opposite  feelings,  without  lean- 
ing too  much  sometimes  on  one  side,  and  sometimes  on 
the  other.     In  the  early  acts  Cinna  execrates  Augustus, 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  195 

and  in  the  latter  he  adores  him.*  At  first,  the  poet  saw 
only  his  hatred,  now  he  sees  only  his  affection  ;  each  of 
these  feelings,  taken  separately,  is  entire  and  absolute, 
as  though  they  were  never  intended  to  co-exist  in  the 
same  heart,  and  consequently  to  have  some  wealf  point 
at  which  it  would  be  possible  to  pass  from  one  to  the 
other.  Pauline,  when  her  father  proposed  to  her  to  see 
Sévère  once  more,  exclaimed  : 

"  Moi  !  moi  !  que  je  revoie  un  si  puissant  vainqueur, 
Et  m'expose  à  des  yeux  qui  me  percent  le  cœur  !" 

This  is  indeed  the  cry  of  love  in  all  its  ardor — the  affright 
of  a  heart  torn  with  its  wounds,  and  which  has  gained 
over  its  weakness  only  the  advantage  of  learning  to  fear 
it.  We  do  not  perceive  that  Pauline's  fondness  for  her 
husband  has  as  yet  succeeded  in  allaying  her  fears  ;  and 
yet,  when  the  danger  of  Polyeucte  stimulates  her  to 
employ  all  means  to  save  him,  no  expression  of  love  is 
too  strong  for  her  to  use,  and  she  exclaims  : 

Ne  désespère  pas  une  âme  qui  t'adore." 

In  the  same  manner,  Chimène  demands  of  the  King, 
with  excessive  vehemence,  the  death  of  that  same  Rod- 
rigue upon  whom,  in  the  next  scene,  she  will  lavish  the 
strongest  protestations  of  love  ;  and  although  "  Polyeucte" 
and  the  "  Cid"  are  the  pieces  in  which  Corneille  has 
most  ably  mingled  the  various  affections  of  the  heart,  it 
is  very  clear  that  in  the  division  which  he  makes  be- 
tween love  and  duty,  when  he  sets  himself  to  delineate 
one  of  these  feelings,  he  can  not  help  falling  into  too 
complete  forgetfulness  of  the  other. 

This  tendency  is  even  more  strikingly  manifested  in  a 

1  "Vous  me  faites  hair  cc  que  mon  âme  adore." 

"  Cinna,"  act  iii.  scene  4. 


196  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

poem  which  Corneile  wrote  on  the  conquest  of  Holland. 
While  busied  in  celebrating  the  victories  of  Louis  XIV. 
and  the  success  attendant  upon  his  arms,  he  suddenly 
turns  his  thought  to  the  conquered  nation,  the  weakness 
of  their  defense,  the  motives  which  must  have  animated 
them,  and  the  cowardice  which  led  them  to  prove  traitors 
to  themselves  ;  and,  in  a  transport  of  Dutch  Republican 
feeling,  he  exclaims  : 

"  Misérables  !   quels  lieux  cacheront  vos  misères, 
Où  vous  ne  trouviez  pas  les  ombres  de  vos  pères, 
Qui,  morts  pour  la  patrie  et  pour  la  liberté, 
Feront  un  long  reproche  à  votre  lâcheté  1 
Cette  noble  valeur  autrefois  si  connue, 
Cette  digne  fierté,  qu"est-eIlo  devenue  1 
Quand,  sur  terre  et  sur  mer,  vos  combats  obstinés 
Brisoient  les  rudes  fers  à  vos  mains  destinés, 
Quand  vos  braves  Nassau,  quand  Guillaume  et  Maurice, 
Quand  Henri  vous  guidoient  dans  cette  illustre  lice, 
Quand  du  sceptre  Danois  vous  paroissiez  l'appui, 
N'aviez-vous  que  les  cœurs,  que  les  bras  d'aujourd'huil" 

Corneille  seems  to  have  forgotten  that,  not  long  before, 
in  an  address  to  Louis  XIV.,  in  which  he  spoke  of  resist- 
ance as  a  crime,  he  had  said  of  these  same  Hollanders  : 

"  C'est  ce  jaloux  ingrat,  cet  insolent  Batave, 
Qui  te  doit  ce  qu'il  est,  et  hautement  te  brave  ;" 

and  exhorted  the  King  to  avenge  upon  them 

"  L'honneur  du  sceptre  et  les  droits  de  la  foi," 

with  as  much  energy  as  he  now  expresses  his  indigna- 
tion at  their  not  having  better  defended  their  "  liberty 
and  fatherland," 

To  the  same  cause  also  must  be  ascribed  the  variable- 
ness of  Corneille's  maxims,  though  they  are  always  ex- 
pressed with  the  most  absolute  confidence  ;  and  in  this 
way  we  must  explain  how  it  is  that  his  morality  is  some- 
times so  severe  and  sometimes  so  lax — that  he  some- 
times  enunciates  principles  of  the  sternest  republican- 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  197 

ism/  and  sometimes  of  the  most  servile  obedience.'  The 
fact  is,  that  whether  Corneille  he  contemplating  the  re- 
publican or  the  subject  of  a  king — the  hero  or  the  poli- 
tician— he  abandons  himself  without  reserve  to  the  sys- 
tem, the  position,  or  the  character  which  he  is  describ- 
ing, and  carefully  avoids  all  reference  to  general  ideas 
that  might  come  into  conflict  with  the  particular  ideas 
which  he  is  desirous  of  bringing  upon  the  stage,  and 
which  vary  according  to  the  personages  of  the  drama. 
This  unreserved  adoption  of  a  special  principle,  changing 
with  the  circumstances  of  the  piece,  gained  Corneille 
credit  for  gi*eat  skill  in  representing  the  local  color  and 
genius  of  different  peoples  and  states  ;  while  this  merit 
was  denied  to  Racine,  whose  descriptions,  being  of  a 
more  general  nature,  seem  too  familiar  to  our  eyes  to 
belong,  by  any  possibility,  to  other  times  than  our  own. 
Racine's  heroes  were  recognized  at  once,  and  claimed  as 
Frenchmen  ;  but  the  singular  physiognomy  of  Corneille's 
heroes  enabled  them  to  pass  easily  for  Greeks  or  Ro- 
mans. "  Being  once,"  says  Segrais,  "near  Corneille,  on 
the  stage,  at  a  performance  of  '  Bajazet,'  he  said  to  me  : 
'  I  should  not  venture  to  say  so  to  others  than  yourself, 
because  it  would  be  said  that  I  spoke  from  jealousy  ;  but 
observe,  there  is  not  a  single  personage  in  '  Bajazet'  who 

'  See  all  the  speeches  ol  Emilie  in  the  fourth  scene  of  the  third  act  of 
"  Cinna." 

^  Horace  asserts  that  when  a  king  declares  his  subject  to  be  guilty — 
"  C'est  crime  qu'envers  lui  se  vouloir  excuser. 
Notre  sang  est  son  bien,  il  en  peut  disposer  : 
'Et  c'est  à  nous  de  croire,  alors  qu'il  en  dispose, 
Qu'il  ne  s'en  prive  point  sans  une  juste  cause."  '      , 

Livie  says  to  Emilie,  when  speaking  of  the  monarch  : 

"  Nous  lui  devons  nos  biens,  nos  jours  sont  en  sa  main." 
And  that  same  Emilie,  who  was  a  moment  before  so  stanch  a  republican, 
expresses  her  entire  concurrence  in  this  sentiment,  and  says  : 
"  Aussi,  dans  le  discours  que  vous  venez  d'entendre 
Je  parlols  pour  l'aigrir,  et  non  pour  me  défendre." 


1&&  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

is  animated  "by  the  feelings  which  ought  to  animate  him, 
and  which  really  are  entertained  at  Constantinople  ;  all 
of  them,  beneath  their  Turkish  dress,  are  actuated  by 
the  feelings  prevalent  in  the  midst  of  France.'  And  he 
was  right,"  adds  Segrais  ;  "in  Corneille's  dramas,  the 
Roman  speaks  like  a  Roman,  the  Greek  like  a  Greek, 
the  Indian  like  an  Indian,  and  the  Spaniard  like  a 
Spaniard.'" 

"  Corneille,"  says  Saint- Evremond,  "  makes  his  Greeks 
speak  better  than  the  Greeks  of  old  ever  spoke,  his  Ro- 
mans than  the  ancient  Romans,  and  his  Carthaginians 
than  the  citizens  of  Carthage  themselves.  Corneille  is 
almost  the  only  man  who  possesses  the  good  taste  of  an- 
tiquity." ^  "  The  Romans,"  says  La  Bruyère,  "  are  greater 
and  more  Roman  in  his  verses  than  in  their  actual  his- 
tory." ^  And  finally,  Balzac  wrote  thus  to  Corneille,  in 
reference  to  Rome  :  "  You  are  the  true  and  faithful  in- 
terpreter of  its  spirit  and  courage.  I  say  more,  sir,  you 
are  often  its  pedagogue,  and  remind  it  of  propriety  when 
it  seems  to  have  forgotten  its  decorum.  You  are  the  re- 
former of  the  old  time,  if  it  needs  any  embellishment  or 
support.  In  those  places  where  Rome  is  built  of  brick, 
you  rebuild  it  of  marble  ;  where  you  find  a  void,  you  fill 
it  with  a  master-piece  ;  and  I  have  always  observed  that 
what'  you  lend  to  history  is  invariably  better  than  what 

you  think  of  it "What  has  antiquity  produced,  in 

the  weaker  sex,  so  vigorous  and  firm  as  to  be  worthy  of 
comparison  with  the  new  heroines  wdiom  you  have  brought 
into  the  world — with  '  Sabine'  and  '  Emilie,'  those  Roman 
ladies  of  your  conception  ?"  * 


'  "  Scgraisiana,"  pp.  G3-6.5. 

^  Saint-Evrcmo>id,  "  (Euvros,"  vol.  iii.  p.  41. 

'  La  Bruyère,  "  Caractères,"  vol.  ii.  p.  84. 

*  Balzar,  "  Lettre  sur  Cinna,"  at  the  beginning  of  that  traged}. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  199 

But  if  there  are  points  in  which  men  recognize,  al- 
though they  may  not  resemble,  one  another,  it  is  no  less 
true  that  there  are  other  jooints  in  which  they  resemble, 
but  do  not  recognize,  each  other.  Certain  feelings  be- 
long to  the  nature  of  all  countries  ;  they  do  not  char- 
acterize the  Japanese  or  the  Parisian  only  ;  they  are 
characteristic  of  man,  and  man  every  where  will  discern 
in  them  his  own  image.  There  is,  on  the  other  hand, 
a  certain  uniformity  of  ideas  which  can  only  belong  to 
certain  degrees  and  special  circumstances  of  civilization  ; 
and  the  more  absolute  and  uniform  these  ideas  become 
at  any  time,  in  any  country,  the  more  markedly  will  they 
characterize  it.  All  the  actions  and  writings  of  the  pe- 
riod will  bear  their  impress  ;  authors  will  assimilate  their 
fictions  and  harmonize  their  characters  therewith,  what- 
ever may  be  their  age  and  land  :  they  will  thus  impress 
upon  them  a  particular  physiognomy,  which  will  be 
taken  for  the  local  physiognomy,  of  the  man  and  the 
time  to  which  the  action  refers,  although  it  is,  properly 
speaking,  the  physiognomy  of  the  author  and  the  period 
at  which  the  action  is  represented  ;  this  will  not,  how- 
ever, be  recognized,  because  it  will  manifest  itself  be- 
neath a  different  costume.  When  Emilie  spoke  of  the 
"  republic  and  liberty,"  could  she  appear  any  thing  but 
a  Roman  lady  ?     And  in  the  line  : 

"  Si  j'ai  séduit  Cinna,  j'en  séduirai  bien  d'autres  :" 

in  the  importance  which  she  attaches  to  "her  favors," 
which  are  to  be  the  price  of  a  revolution,  which  of  the 
spectators  ever  thought  of  discerning  the  pride  of  a  ro- 
mance-heroine of  the  seventeenth  century  ?  Yet  such  she 
nevertheless  was,  but  her  character  was  the  less  discovera- 
ble by  the  eyes  of  her  contemporaries,  as  she  had  borrow- 
ed from  them  all  the  singularity  of  their  own  manners  in 


200  LIFE  AND  WRITLNGS  OF 

order  to  engraft  it  upon  times  and  manners  totally  dif- 
ferent. 

Thus,  unperceived  and  unintentionally,  Corneille  has 
subjected  his  characters  to  the  sway  of  the  ideas  of  his 
own  time — a  time  at  which  protracted  disorders  had  in- 
troduced into  morality,  which  was  still  far  from  having 
made  great  progress,  somewhat  of  that  uncertainty  which 
is  engendered  by  party  ties  and  the  duties  of  position. 
The  fewness  of  general  ideas  combined  with  the  multi- 
tude and  diversity  of  private  interests  to  leave  great 
latitude  to  that  pseudo-morality,  which  is  made  to  suit 
the  necessities  of  the  moment,  and  which  the  require- 
ments of  conscience  transform  into  a  State  virtue.  The 
principles  of  common  morality  seemed  binding  only  on 
those  persons  who  were  not  authorized  by  great  interests 
to  contemn  them  ;  and  no  one  felt  the  slightest  surprise 
at  these  words  of  Livie  : 

"  Tous  ces  crimes  d'Etat  qu'on  fait  pour  la  couronne, 
Le  ciel  nous  en  absout  alors  qu'il  nous  la  donne  ; 
Et  dans  le  sacré  rang  où  sa  faveur  l'a  mis, 
Le  passé  devient  juste  et  l'avenir  permis." 

Unlimited  devotion  to  the  cause  or  condition  which  a 
man  had  embraced  was  a  line  of  conduct  which  might 
not  be  approved,  but  which  met  with  discussion 'rather 
than  condemnation.  Few  actions  were  thought  suffi- 
ciently culpable  in  themselves  not  to  find  an  excuse  in 
private  motives  ;  and  few  characters  were  so  well  estab- 
lished as  to  be  deemed  inaccessible  to  the  influence  of 
such  motives.  Mme.  de  Rambouillet,  the  most  respected 
woman  of  her  time,  received  from  Cardinal  Richelieu, 
"who  held  her  in  great  esteem,'"  a  message  in  which 
he  begged  her,  as  a  friend,  to  inform  him  of  whatever 
was  said  about  him  at  the  meetings  which  were  then 

'  *'  Segraisiana,"  p.  29. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  201 

held  at  her  house;  and  Segrais,  on  learning  her  refusal 
to  comply  with  this  request,'  ascribes  it  to  the  fact  "that 
she  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be  a  partisan,  and  to  do 
any  one  a  bad  turn."  So,  acting  as  the  Cardinal's  spy 
would  have  been  nothing  more  than  "becoming  a  par- 
tisan !  And  who  would  have  blamed  Mme.  de  Rambou- 
illet for  becoming  a  partisan  of  the  prime  minister  ? 
Emeri,  the  superintendent  of  the  finances,  once  said  in 
open  council,  "  that  good  faith  was  a  quality  expected 
only  of  merchants,  and  that  those  masters  of  requests 
who  alleged  it  as  a  reason  in  matters  concerning  the 
king,  deserved  to  be  punished."  ^  It  is  true  that,  in  his 
youth,  Emeri  had  been  condemned  to  be  hanged  ;  but 
the  greatest  scoundrels  never  say  aloud  any  thing  but 
what  honest  folks  are  willing  to  hear.  Struck  with 
wonder  at  a  liberty  which  they  did  not  feel  themselves 
capable  of  attaining,  these  honest  persons  said:  "  He  is 
'  an  able  statesman  !"  and  their  only  conclusion  was  that, 
to  be  a  statesman,  it  was  necessary  to  be  a  dishonest 
man.^     Some  men  of  superior  mind,  such  as  Cardinal  de 

'  She  told  Bois-Uobert,  who  had  undertaken  this  friendly  office,  "  that 
those  who  visited  her  were  so  strongly  persuaded  of  the  respect  and  friend- 
ship which  she  entertained  for  his  Eminence,  that  not  one  of  them  would 
be  bold  enough  to  speak  ill  of  him  in  her  presence  ;  and  that  therefore  she 
would  never  have  occasion  to  give  him  such  information." — "Segraisiana," 
p.  30.  "  De  Retz,  "Mémoires,"'  vol.  i.  p.  99. 

'  That  Photin  is  an  Emeri,  who,  in  the  "Mort  de  Pompée,"  says  : 
"  La  justice  n'est  pas  une  vertu  d'Etat," 
and  who  maintains  that  a  prince  should 

"  Fuir  comme  un  déshonneur  la  vertu  qui  nous  perd, 
Et  voler,  sans  scrupule,  au  crime  qui  le  sert." 

And  Voltaire,  who  is  violently  indignant  at  the  want  of  probability  of  such 
a  statement,  and  declares  in  his  Commentaries  that  such  maxims  had  never 
been  uttered,  and  that  a  man  who  wishes  his  advice  to  be  taken  would  not 
dress  it  in  so  abominable  a  garb — even  Voltaire  had  not  thoroughly  exam- 
ined, and  did  not  rightly  understand  the  time  of  Corneille.  In  proof  that 
that  period  was  very  different  from  the  time  of  Voltaire,  it  is  only  necessary 
to  observe  that,  in  Voltaire's  time  not  even  an  Emeri  would  have  broached 
such  am  opinidn  in  open  council  -  = 


202  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

Retz,  perceived  in  Emeri's  opinions  as  much  want  of 
judgment  as  meanness  of  heart;'  but  this  same  Cardinal 
de  Retz  sought  to  obtain,  by  revolutionizing  the  State, 
"not  only  an  honest,  but  an  illustrious"*  mode  of  desert- 
ing the  ecclesiastical  order  with  which  he  had  unwill- 
ingly been  connected.  At  this  epoch,  long-continued  dis- 
orders had  left  every  man  the  care  and  the  power  of 
making  his  own  position  in  society  ;  all  interests  and  all 
ambitions  were  incessantly  in  conflict,  if  only  for  the 
honor  of  gaining  the  victory.  Upon  a  man's  dignity  de- 
volved the  task  of  maintaining  his  rank  ;  glory  dispensed 
with  virtue,  and  pride  might  consist  in  believing  one's 
self  above  the  performance  of  duties.^ 

The  most  insignificant  facts  become  worthy  of  notice 
when  they  clearly  reveal  and  distinctly  characterize  the 
spirit  of  the  age.  M.  de  Luynes  was  one  day  bantering 
the  young  Duke  de  Rhételois,  who  was  then  sixteen  years 
of  age,  on  the  care  which  he  took  to  have  his  hair  well 
curled.  The  Duke  replied  that  it  curled  naturally  ;  "and 
when  M.  de  Luynes,  in  presence  of  the  king,  affected  as- 
tonishment at  this,  the  king  inquired  if  what  he  said 
were  true.  '  No,  Sire,'  replied  the  Duke  de  Rhételois. 
'  Why  did  you  not  say  so  when  I  asked  you  V  inquired 
M.  de  Luynes.  'Because,'  answered  the  Duke,  'I  tell 
truth  to  the  king,  but  to  you  what  I  please.'"*  This 
same  Duke  de  Rhételois  would  have  laid  his  hand  to  his 
sword  to  answer  a  contradiction,  for  no  one  then  suffered 
another  man  to  give  him  the  lie  ;  but  claimed  for  him- 
self alone  the  right  of  contradicting  his  own  statements. 

Such  traits  of  character  as  these  were  continually  oc- 
curring before  the  eyes  of  Corneille;   and  these  traits  he 

'  De  Rctz,  "  Mémoires,"  vol.  i.  p.  99. 

*  Ibid.  vol.  i.  p.  31.  ^  See  Appendix  C. 

*  "Mémoires  de  Marolloj,"  vol.  i.  p.  8d. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  203 

has  bestowed  upon  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  who  were 
thought  "  so  like  and  yet  so  much  flattered"  by  his  fel- 
low-countrymen, who  eagerly  acknowledged  the  authen- 
ticity of  these  "  illustrious  ancients,"  as  they  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  feeling  themselves  to  be  Greeks  and  Romans 
like  them.  The  genius  of  Corneille,  and  the  subtlety  of 
his  reasonings,  appeared  to  the  men  of  his  time  to  justify 
manners  which  they  were  better  able  to  maintain  than 
to  explain  ;  the  force  of  his  dialectics  threw  strong  light 
upon  principles,  of  which  fhey  possessed  a  feeling  rather 
than  a  clear  and  precise  idea  ;  and  his  political  reflections 
struck  them  with  all  the  more  force,  because  they  led 
them  farther  than  they  had  ever  yet  traveled  upon  a  road 
with  which  they  were  well  acquainted.  When  the  Maré- 
chal de  Grammont  said,  "  Corneille  is  the  breviary  of 
kings,"  it  was  less,  I  think,  from  a  just  appreciation  of 
Cinna's  noble  deliberation,  than  from  a  courtier's  admira- 
tion of  that  arrogant  contempt  for  morality  which  is 
thought  appropriate  to  lofty  positions  because  it  is  at 
variance  with  vulgar  maxims  :  but  the  true  feelings  and 
sublime  impulses  which  a  man  of  genius  alone  could  de- 
rive from  so  strange  a  system  were  required  to  behold — 

"  Le  grand  Condé  pleurant  avix  vers  du  grand  Corneille." 

The  great  vice  of  such  a  system  is  that  the  merit  of 
its  effects  depends  absolutely  upon  the  position  of  its 
characters.  Some  moments  may  occur  in  the  life  of  a 
man,  when  extraordinary  circumstances  render  it  im- 
perative on  liim  to  be  actuated  only  by  one  single  feeling 
— when  the  maxims  of  prudence,  and  even  of  ordinary 
morality,  may  and  must  be  silent,  in  presence  of  consid- 
erations of  a  probably  superior  order,  and  leave  the  man 
to  the  influence  of  a  single  virtue  and  a  single  interest. 
If  that  man,  possessing  an  energetic  and  simple  natural 


204  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

character,  has  accustomed  himself  to  sacrifice  all  to  the 
object  of  his  desire — if,  proceeding  always  with  firm  step 
to  the  execution  of  his  designs,  he  has  never  experienced 
either  those  mental  disturbances  which  arise  from  uncer- 
tainty with  regard  to  duty,  or  that  hesitation  of  will 
which  is  occasioned  by  the  conflict  of  two  affections — 
then,  when  an  imperious  circumstance  presents  itself 
before  him,  with  promptitude  and  firmness  he  sweeps 
away  all  obstacles  at  a  blow,  darts  forward  to  the  goal, 
and  roughly  seizes  upon  that  fortunate  necessity  which 
makes  him  a  great  man.  This  sometimes  occurs  to  the 
heroes  of  Corneille  ;  when  the  character  with  which  he 
has  endowed  them  becomes  a  virtue,  that  virtue  subju- 
gates and  governs  the  whole  man,  both  as  regards  his 
feelings  and  his  position  ;  and  every  thing  bends  before 
this  character,  to  complete  the  greatness  of  which  no- 
thing is  wanting  after  it  has  found  employment  for  all 
its  power. 

But  this  power  does  not  always  find  means  for  its 
worthy  exercise,  and  the  display  of  its  strength  some- 
times bears  a  closer  resemblance  to  the  pomp  of  parade 
than  to  the  real  activity  of  combat.  Thus,  in  "He- 
raclius,"  Pulchérie  exhausts  herself  in  uttering  insults 
against  Phocas,  which  are  not  attended  with  sufficient 
difficulty  and  danger  to  be  worthy  of  her  ;  she  requires 
an  opportunity  in  which  the  haughtiness  of  her  contempt, 
and  the  inflexibility  and  frankness  of  her  resentment, 
may  be  an  act  of  courage  and  virtue.  In  the  position  of 
Nicomède,  the  necessity  of  braving  and  affironting  all 
who  surround  him  is  not  sufficiently  evident  to  save  his 
perpetual  bravado  from  occasionally  appearing  out  of 
place.  Emilie's  inflexibility  is  admirable,  if  wo  only 
think  of  the  position  in  which  she  hns  been  placed  by 
her  thirst  for  vengeance  ;  but  it  is  excessive  if  we  weigh 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  205 

the  motives  of  her  passion  for  revenge  :  the  errors  of  Au- 
gustus, from  whom  she  has  consented  to  receive  so  many 
benefits,  no  longer  deserve  the  firmness  with  which  she 
perseveres  in  her  hatred  of  him;  and  that  "  adorahle 
fury"  of  Balzac's  doctor,'  though  "adorable"  if  you  please, 
when  the  position  suits  her  character,  is,  in  fact,  nothing 
better  than  a  "fury,"  when  such  is  not  the  case. 

It  is  impossible  for  their  position  not  to  frequently  fail 
Corneille's  characters,  for  they  can  not  find  a  suitable 
place  elsewhere  than  in  the  most  extraordinary  circum- 
stances of  life.  It  has  been  urged  against  them  that 
they  speak  too  long,  and  talk  too  much  of  themselves. 
"  They  talk  too  much  to  make  themselves  known,"  said 
Vauvenargues  ;  but  how  could  we  know  them  if  they  did 
not  speak  ?  A  single  dramatic  action  could  not  possibly 
include  enough  facts  and  circumstances  for  the  display 
of  such  characters  in  their  entirety,  and  could  not  show, 
by  what  they  do,  all  that  they  are  capable  of  doing.  They 
are  not  characters  who  limit  their  conduct  to  the  exertion 
of  influence  over  the  action  of  the  moment,  or  to  bursting 
violently  into  a  particular  passion  ;  they  embrace  and 
sway  the  whole  individual  ;  and  they  would  need  an 
entire  lifetime  to  make  themselves  thoroughly  known 
and  understood.  Upon  the  stage,  they  have  not  enough 
time  or  space  :  Nicomède  can  not  display  thereon  that 
military  talent  on  which  he  rests  his  confidence  and  pride  ; 
powerless  at  the  court  of  Prusias,  he  can  neither  give 
evidence    of  that    enlightened    prudence  which  enables 

'  "  A  doctor  in  my  neighborhood,  who  usually  adopts  the  lofty  style, 
certainly  speaks  of  her  in  a  strange  manner  ;  and  there  is  no  hann  in  your 
knowing  whither  you  have  carried  his  mind.  He  was  satisfied,  on  the  first 
day,  with  saying  that  your  Emilie  was  the  rival  of  Cato  and  Brutus,  in  her 
passion  for  liberty.  At  this  hour,  however,  he  goes  much  farther  ;  some- 
times he  says  that  she  is  possessed  by  the  demon  of  the  republic  ;  and  some- 
times he  calls  her  the  beautitltl,  the  reasonable,  the  holy,  and  tho  adorable 
fury.'* — Balzac,  "  Lettre  sur  Cinila." 


206  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

him  to  foresee  and  to  frustrate  the  designs  of  the  Ro- 
mans, nor  of  that  tranquil  greatness  of  soul  which  can 
find  no  surer  means  of  escaping  from  power  than  braving 
it— 

"  D'estiruer  beaucoup  Rome  et  ne  la  craindre  point." 

Consequently,  in  order  to  make  us  acquainted  with  Ni- 
comède,  it  becomes  necessary  for  Prusias  to  draw  him 
momentarily  from  his  inactive  position  by  permitting  him 
to  answer  Flaminius  in  his  stead.  Corneille  was  not 
aware  of  another  expedient  for  furnishing  even  Nicomède 
with  enough  words  to  supply  the  place  of  those  actions 
which  befit  such  a  character  as  his.  In  "  Rodogune," 
Cleopatra,  hampered  by  her  position,  can  not  give  vent 
to  the  violence  of  her  hatred,  and  the  unbending  nature 
of  her  ambition  ;  time  fails  her  to  develop  before  us  the 
progress  of  her  combinations  ;  and  she  details  them  to  us 
that  we  may  know  them.  If  the  stern  requirements  of 
duty  allowed  Pauline  to  manifest  in  her  actions  the 
strength  of  her  love  for  Sévère,  as  well  as  her  persistence 
in  sacrificing  him,  she  would  not  be  obliged  to  say  so 
much  about  the  great  virtue  involved  in  the  sacrifice. 
All  these  characters  speak  when  compelled  to  do  so  by 
the  necessities  of  the  scene,  and  not  by  the  exigencies  of 
the  action;  they  speak  sometimes  without  waiting  the 
proper  opportunity  for  so  doing  ;  though  such  a  course  is 
not  in  harmony  with  the  almost  exclusive  empire  exerted 
over  them  by  their  character.  Character,  regarded  as  a 
simple  natural  disposition,  is  manifested  only  when  it 
fijids  itself  in  presence  of  an  object  adapted  to  bring  it 
into  play  ;  whereas  passion,  a  violent  movement  of  the 
soul,  inclines  in  every  direction,  vents  itself  wherever  it 
can,  and  is  able  to  furnish  nmch  more  naturally  that 
abundance  of  discourtJo,  which  is  ncccs;^ûry  on  the  stage. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  207 

AVhen  dying  Cleopatra  reveals  to  her  son  her  crimes  and 
dreadful  projects,  she  is  hurried  on  by  passion;  her  hatred 
is  no  longer  able  to  act  ;  she  has  no  consolation  but  in 
declaring  it  ;  and  her  revelations  are  therefore  perfectly 
natural.  But  the  revelations  which  Cleopatra  makes  to 
Laonice  in  the  early  acts  are  not  so,  because  they  are 
simple  developments  of  character,  skillfully  given  by  the 
person  herself,  instead  of  being  naturally  provoked  by  the 
course  of  events. 

Not  only  do  Corneille's  heroes  possess  few  passions 
which  wage  war  against  their  character,  but  it  rarely 
happens  that  their  character  is  set  in  motion  by  the  or- 
dinary feelings  of  the  heart,  as  they  may  exist  under 
simple  circumstances.  They  most  frequently  give  ex- 
pression to  ideas,  and  almost  to  doctrines  ;  their  speeches 
generally  consist  of  reasonings,  animated  by  strong  con- 
viction and  pressing  logic,  but  somewhat  cold  and  con- 
fined within  the  circle  of  mental  combinations.  A  prin- 
ciple, a  general  and  systematic  idea,  holds  sway  and 
manifests  itself  throughout  ;  and  on  the  truth  or  falsity 
of  this  principle  the  conduct  of  the  persons  of  the  drama 
invariably  depends.  Thus  Pauline  is  guided  by  the  idea 
of  duty,  and  Polyeucte  by  that  of  religious  faith  ;  and 
these  ideas,  admirably  adapted  to  elevate  the  soul  and 
exalt  the  imagination,  develop  a  most  passionate  feeling 
in  both  personages  ;  but  even  this  feeling  is  based  upon 
a  principle.     "When  Polyeucte  exclaims  : 

"Grand  Dieu  !  de  vos  bontés  il  faut  que  je  l'obtienne  ;       ^  ,..(    '. 
Elle  a  trop  de  vertu  pour  n'être  pas  chrétienne  :" 

it  is  the  inflexibility  of  the  principle  "  out  of  the  church 
there  is  no  salvation,"  which  produces  this  extremely 
touching  and  truthful  movement.  It  is  a  reasoned  knowl- 
edge of  the  devotion  which  patriotism  imposes  on  a  Ro- 


208  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

man,  which  sustains  the  inflexible  firmness  of  young 
Horace  ;  and  that  sublime  outburst — 

"  Quoi  !  vous  me  pleureriez  mourant  pour  mon  pays  V 

is  an  expression  of  the  astonishment  of  a  man  who  hears 
a  truth  which  he  deems  incontestable,  called  in  question. 
Cinna  says  to  Emilie — 

"  Vous  faites  des  vertus  au  gré  de  votre  haine;" 

and  she  answers  : 

"  Je  me  fais  des  vertus  dignes  d'une  Romaine." 

Emilie's  hatred  is,  in  fact,  a  virtue  and  not  a  feeling, 
in  her  own  opinion  ;  she  thinks  that  she  ought  to  hate 
Augustus,  and  she  tells  us  why  she  hates  him,  rather 
than  explains  how  she  does  so.  Chimène's  pertinacity  in 
demanding  the  death  of  Rodrigue  is  altogether  the  result 
of  reflection  ;  whatever  grief  she  may  have  felt  at  the 
death  of  her  father,  it  is  not  grief  which  hurries  her  to 
the  feet  of  the  king,  but  the  idea  of  what  she  is  bound  by 
honor  to  do..  But  the  feeling  which  possesses  her,  con- 
tinually diverts  her  attention  from  the  idea  which  governs 
her  ;  at  the  same  time  that  she  does  what  she  thinks  duty 
commands  for  her  father,  she  says  what  she  feels  for  her 
lover,  and  the  "  Cid,"  the  only  one  of  Corneille's  tragedies 
in  which  love  ventures  to  display  all  its  power,  is  also 
the  only  one  in  which  he  has  followed  the  natural  rule  of 
giving  action  to  character  and  words  to  passion. 

Moreover,  in  Corneille,  absolute  truth  is,  here  as  else- 
where, superseded  by  relative  truth  ;  where  we  can  not 
discover  the  characteristics  of  man  in  general,  we  find  the 
features  of  the  Frenchman  of  the  seventeenth  century  ; 
and  the  somewhat  talkative  virtue  of  his  heroes  could  not 
bqt  be  well  received  at  a  time  when  the  necessity  of  duly 
maintaining  his  rank  in  society  placed  tho  act  of  asserting 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  209 

his  own  importance  among  the  duties,  or  at  least  among 
the  accomplishments,  of  a  man  of  merit.  To  talk  of  one's 
self  was  then  a  most  common  practice.  It  was  Balzac'-s 
custom,  whenever  he  mentioned  his  own  performances  in 
conversation,  to  take  off  his  hat,  apparently  out  of  polite- 
ness to  those  who  were  listening  to  him.  One  day,  when 
he  was  suffering  from  a  violent  cold,  Ménage  said  he 
had  caught  it  IVom  the  number  of  opportunities  which  ho 
gave  himself  for  taking  off  his  hat  !  This  joke  occasion- 
ed a  serious  quarrel  between  them.  "  M.  de  la  Roche- 
foucauld," says  Segrais,  "  was  the  most  polite  man  in  the 
world  ;  he  well  knew  how  to  observe  all  the  proprieties, 
and  above  all  things,  he  never  praised  himself.  M.  de 
Roquelaure  and  M.  de  Miossans  were  men  of  great  talent, 
but  they  were  never  tired  of  praising  themselves.  They 
had  a  great  many  admirers.  Speaking  of  them,  M.  de  la 
Rochefoucauld  used  to  say  :  "  I  repent  of  the  law  which 
I  have  imposed  upon  myself  not  to  speak'  in  my  own 
praise;  if  I  did  so,  I  should  have  many  more  followers. 
Look  at  MM.  de  Roquelaure  and  de  Miossans,  who,  for 
two  mortal  hours,  have  been  talking  to  twenty  people 
about  nothing  but  their  own  merits.  Among  those  who 
listen  to  them,  there  are  only  two  or  three  who  can  riot 
endure  them  ;  but  the  other  seventeen  applaud  them 
loudly,  and  consider  them  incomparable.'" 

Nevertheless,  while  endowing  his  heroes  with  taste  and 
the  gift  of  speech.  Corneille  does  not  forget  to  place  them 
in  positions  in  which  they  will  have  opportunity  to  act  ; 
in  his  dramas,  every  thing  tends  to  effects  of  position  ; 
and  he  is  constantly  seeking  to  prepare  and  to  put  forward 
these  effects.  In  his  "  Examinations,"  he  rarely  praises 
himself  for  the  expression  which  he  has  given  to  feelings 
and  ideas  ;  but  he  is  continually  congratulating  himself 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  32. 


210  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

on  the  invention  of  this  or  that  position,  or  else  of  the 
means  which  he  had  used  to  give  likelihood  and  suit- 
ability to  the  position  which  he  desired  to  introduce.  In 
truth,  he  abuses  the  too  easy  art  of  creating  the  embar- 
rassments which  he  needs  ;  and  it  is  to  the  subtleties  of 
his  age,  rather  than  to  nature,  that  he  looks  for  the  feel- 
ings necessary  to  the  action  which  he  intends  to  produce. 
Thus  Rodogune,  when  ready  to  do  her  duty,  and  marry 
whichever  of  the  two  princes  may  be  declared  the  elder, 
does  not  think  herself  at  liberty  to  bestow  her  hand  with- 
out exacting  the  condition  that  her  first  husband  shall  be 
avenged  ;  that  is  to  say,  without  obliging  the  prince  she 
may  espouse  to  assassinate  his  mother  : 

"  Je  me  mettrai  trop  haut  s'il  faut  que  je  me  donne. 
Quoique  aisément  je  cède  aux  ordres  de  mon  roi, 
Il  n'est  pas  bien  aisé  de  m'obtenir  de  moi. 


Ce  cœur  vous  est  acquis  après  le  diadème, 
Prince,  mais  gardez-vous  de  le  rendre  à  lui-même  ; 
Vous  y  renoncerez  peut-être  pour  jamais 
Quand  je  vous  aurai  dit  à  quel  prix  je  le  mets." 

This  fearful  proposition  is  merely  a  subtle  invention, 
intended  to  act  as  a  basis  for  the  position  of  the  fifth 
act,  by  placing  "  Rodogune  herself  under  the  necessity 
of  prolonging  the  uncertainty  of  the  two  princes  ;"  and 
when  this  uncertainty  is  terminated  by  her  confession 
to  Antiochus,  and  by  the  renunciation  of  Seleucus,  the 
facility  with  which  Rodogune  abandons  her  project  adds 
greatly  to  the  whimsicality  of  the  idea  that  produced  it  ; 

"  Votre  refus  est  juste  autant  que  ma  demande. 
A  force  de  respect  votre  amour  s'est  trahi. 
Je  voudrois  vous  hair,  s'il  m'avoit  obéi  ; 
Et  je  n'estime  pas  l'honneur  d'une  vengeance 
Jusqu'à  vouloir  d'un  crime  être  la  récompense." 

Thus  it  was   that  the  age   in   which  Corneille  lived 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE,  211 

taught  him  to  treat  the  feelings  of  the  heart.  The  un- 
bounded devotion  of  this  age  to  love  is  an  example,  among 
many  others,  of  the  eifects  of  superstition  upon  true  wor- 
ship ;  and  the  grave  and  simple  Corneille,  by  his  suLinis- 
sion  to  the  superstitious  gallantries  of  his  time,  affords  a 
striking  evidence  of  the  manner  in  which  a  man  of  genius 
may  subject  his  reason  to  the  caprices  of  the  multitude, 
to  whose  advice  he  listens  that  he  may  obtain  a  hearing 
for  himself. 

The  "Cid"  and  "  Polyeuctc"  effectually  raised  Cor- 
neille above  the  suspicion  of  having  disregarded  those 
characteristics  of  love  which  render  it  worthy  of  being 
depicted  by  a  man  of  genius,  and  of  having  looked  to  the 
romances  of  his  time  for  that  coloring  which  his  imagin- 
ation refused  to  supply.  It  is,  however,  impossible  to 
deny  that,  in  most  of  his  pieces,  Corneille  has  treated 
love,  not  as  a  passion  that  fills,  agitates,  and  sways  the 
soul,  but  as  a  position  that  imposes  certain  duties,  pre- 
scribes a  certain  course  of  conduct,  and  coldly  disposes 
of  life,  without  lending  it  any  charms.  The  author  of 
the  "  Cid"  and  of  "Polyeucte"  could  not  have  been  igno- 
rant of  the  nature  of  true  love  ;  even  if  he  had  not  exper- 
ienced its  full  ardor  and  extravagance,  he  was  certainly 
acquainted  with  that  sincere  and  profound  tenderness  of 
heart,  that  perfect  confidence,  which  brings  two  souls  into 
union,  although  duty  may  call  them  in  different,  or  even 
opposite  directions — that  sweet  and  intimate  communion 
of  two  lovers,  which,  leads  one  to  sympathize  with  all  the 
sufferings  of  the  other,  which  opposes  union  of  hearts  to 
the  misfortunes  of  destiny,  and  establishes,  between  two 
beings  who  are  separated  by  all  beside,  secret  bonds  which 
nothing  can  avail  to  sunder.  Chimène  and  Rodrigue  con- 
■»  ^rse  of  their  common  afiairs,  when  speaking  of  the  op- 
'•  ^site  duties  imposed  upon  them  ;  and,  if  such  an  exprès- 


212  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

sion  may  be  allowed,  they  arrange  together  for  their  per- 
formance : 

1  "  Tu  n'as  fait  le  devoir  que  d'un  homme  de  bien  ; 

Mais  aussi,  le  faisant,  tu  m'as  appris  le  mien  " 

There  is  nothing  which  the  love  of  one  of  the  two  lovers 
would  desire  to  wrest  from  the  honor  of  the  other  : 

"  Va  ;  je  ne  te  hais  point. — Tu  le  dois. — Je  ne  puis. 
— Crains-tu  si  peu  le  blâme  et  si  peu  les  faux  bruits  î 
Quand  on  saura  mon  crime,  et  que  ta  flanmie  dure, 
Que  ne  publieront  pas  l'envie  et  l'imposture  1" 

But  when  Rodrigue  and  Chimène  have  become  convinced 
that  it  is  impossible  to  stifle  their  affection,  and  that  they 
are  not  called  upon  to  display  their  strength  and  virtue 
in  this  vain  attempt,  then,  left  for  a  moment  to  the 
unresisted  influence  of  that  love  which  constitutes  their 
sole  happiness  in  the  midst  of  the  most  cruel  misfor- 
tunes, they  feel,  they  think,  they  almost  speak  together  ; 
the  echo  of  their  words  is  that  cry  which  escapes  simul- 
taneously from  two  souls  deeply  affected  by  the  same 
grief: 

"  Rodrigue,  qui  l'eût  cru  î — Chimène,  qui  l'eût  dit  1 
Que  notre  heur  fût  si  proche  et  si  tôt  se  perdît  !" 

And  their  farewell  serves  only  to  complete  the  union  of 
their  destiny  : 

•'  Adieu  !     Je  vais  traîner  une  moUYante  vie. 
Tant  que  par  ta  poursuite  elle  me  soit  ravie. 
— Si  j'en  obtiens  relict,  je  te  donne  ma  foi 
De  ne  respirer  pas  un  moment  après  toi." 

They  can  now  separate.  Rodrigue  could  even  fight 
Chimène's  brother,  if  Chimène  had  a  brother  desirous  of 
avenging  his  father  ;  and  Chimène  can  pursue  Rodrigue 
with  hostile  intentions.  They  have  met,  and  discovered 
their  mutual  sentiments  ;  they  will  now  understand  each 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  213 

other  in  spite  of  appearances  most  unintelligible  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  and  the  mysterious  freemasonry  of  love 
will  never  allow  either  of  them  to  be  exposed  to  the  pain 
of  being  misunderstood  by  the  adored  being  to  whom  he 
remains  faithful,  even  at  the  moment  of  sacrificing  him. 

Pauline,  when  united  to  Polyecute,  and  determined  to 
endure  all  the  sacrifices  that  may  be  imposed  on  her  by 
this  tie,  nevertheless  does  not  attempt  to  dissemble  to 
Sévère  those  feelings  with  which  he  was  so  well  ac- 
quainted ;  but  she  appeals  to  the  love  of  Sévère  himself 
to  support  her  in  the  performance  of  a  duty  which — 

" Moins  ferme  et  moins  sincère, 

N'auroit  pas  mérité  l'amour  du  grand  Sévère  ;" 

and  to  him  she  still  belongs  even  when  she  rejects  him 
in  the  name  of  her  virtue. 

The  poet  who  could  conceive  thus  of  love  undoubtedly 
possessed  within  himself  the  necessary  qualifications  for 
describing  it.  In  a  life  least  subject  to  the  empire  of  the 
passions,  experience,  when  properly  used,  supplies  the 
imagination,  on  this  point,  with  more  touching  details 
than  it  is  ever  able  to  employ.  "  Corneille's  tempera- 
ment," says  Fontenelle,  "  inclined  him  sufl^ciently  to  love, 
but  never  to  libertinism,  and  seldom  to  strong  attach- 
ments." '  Strong  attachments  are  always  rare,  and  it  is 
enough  to  have  been  under  the  influence  of  one  to  know 
what  opinion  to  entertain  on  the  subject;  but  Corneille 
often  forgot  his  own  opinion  to  remember  only  what  he 
had  heard  others  say  about  it.  Speaking  of  himself,  he 
has  said  : 

"  En  matière  d'amour  je  suis  fort  inégal  ; 
J'en  écris  assez  bien  ;  je  le  fais  assez  mal." 

"Whether  he  made  love  well  or  ill,   he  did   not  always 

'   Fontenelle,  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  125. 


214  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

write  about  it  as  well  as  he  thought.  He  too  frequently 
allowed  borrowed  habits  to  trample  upon  the  dictates,  of 
his  heart  and  reason  ;  and  he  sacrificed  the  feelings  with 
which  he  had  animated  Chimène  and  Pauline  for  the 
insipidities  which  he  had  been  taught  to  put  into  the 
mouths  of  Csesar  and  Cleopatra. 

At  the  present  day,  in  order  to  judge  the  loves- of  Caesar 
and  Cleopatra,  of  Antiochus  and  Rodogune,  as  they  were 
judged  by  the  most  talented  and  sensible  men  of  the 
seventeenth  century,'  we  must  transport  ourselves  into 
the  system  of  love  generally  adopted  at  that  period,  with 
which  Corneille's  characters,  as  it  becomes  well-educated 
persons,  act  in  strict  conformity.  We  must  resign  our- 
selves to  behold  in  love  neither  liberty  of  choice,  nor  suit- 
ability of  tastes,  characters,  and  habits,  nor  any  of  those 
bonds  which  become  all  the  more  dear  as  we  better  ap- 
preciate them,  and  better  understand  their  true  motives. 
To  the  fashionable  world  of  Corneille's  time,  love  was 
nothing  but  an  ordinance  of  Heaven,  an  influence  of 
the  stars,  a  fatality  as  inexplicable  as  it  was  inevitable. 
Every  one  knows  by  heart  these  lines  of  Rodogune  : 

"  II  est  des  nœuds  secrets,  il  est  des  sympathies 
Dont,  par  le  doux  rapport,  les  âmes  assorties 
S'attachent  Tune  à  l'autre,  et  se  laissent  piquer 
Par  ces  je  ne  sais  quoi  qu'on  ne  peut  expliquer." 

The  following  lines,  from  the  "  Suite  au  Menteur,"  would 
be  even  better  known  than  the  foregoing,  if  the  piece 
were  read  as  much 

"  Quand  les  ordres  du  ciel  nous  ont  faits  l'un  pour  l'autre 
Lise,  c'est  un  accord  bientôt  fait  que  le  notre  ; 
Sa  main,  entre  les  cœurs,  y)ar  lui  secret  pouvoir, 
Sème  l'intelligence  avant  que  de  se  voir; 


*  Among  others,  see  Saint-Evremond's  opinion  in  his  "Discours  sur 
l'Alexandre  de  Racine,"  in  vol.  iii   p.  149  of  his  works. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  215 

Il  prépare  si  bien  l'amant  et  la  maîtresse, 

Que  leur  âme,  au  seul  nom,  s'émeut  et  s'intéresse  ; 

On  s'estime,  on  se  cherche,  on  s'aime  en  un  moment  ; 

Tout  ce  qu'on  s'entredit  persuade  aisément  ; 

Et  sans  s'inquiéter  d'aucunes  peurs  frivoles, 

La  foi  semble  courir  au-devant  des  paroles." 

The  same  idea  occurs  again  in  "Bérénice;"'  it  is  ap- 
parent in  all  Corneille's  dramas  ;  and  no  wonder,  for  it 
was  the  idea  of  the  time.  A  passion  thus  predetermin- 
ate  was  necessarily  of  instantaneous  origin.  Thus  arose 
the  passion  of  the  Duke  de  Nemours  for  the  Princess  of 
Cleves,  the  various  movements  of  which  were  afterward 
ohserved  with  so  much  delicacy,  and  described  with  so 
much  truthfulness.  Beauty,  the  only  charm  whose  full 
value  is  appreciated  at  a  single  glance,  then  held  sway 
not  only  with  irrisistible  power,  but  with  tyranny.  "At 
forty-eight  years  of  age,"  says  Segrais,  "  Mme.  de  Mont- 
bazon  was  still  so  beautiful  that  she  eclipsed  Mme.  de 
Roquelaure,  who  was  only  twenty-two  years  old  ;  and 
one  day,  happening  to  meet  together  at  an  assembly, 
Mme.  de  Roquelaure  was  obliged  to  withdraw."*  The 
Memoirs  of  the  time  furnish  us  with  many  instances  of 
ladies  who  were  actually  obliged  to  retire  because  a  more 
beautiful  rival  had  entered  the  room.  It  seemed  as 
though  beauty  were  a  supreme  and  exclusive  empire, 
the  loss  of  which  left  the  vanquished  naught  but  shame 
and  flight.  La  Bruyère  himself  declares  that  "  that  love 
which  arises  suddenly  is  longest  in  curing."  He  even 
seems  to  think  that  it  alone  deserves  the  name  of  love  : 
"Love  is  born  suddenly,"  he  says,  "without  other  re- 
flection, from  temperament  or  from  weakness  ;  a  glimpse 
of  beavity  transfixes  and  decides  us.     That  love  which 

'    " Ce  don  fut  I'efTet  d'une  force  imprévue  : 

De  cet  ordre  du  ciel,  qui  verse  en  nos  esprits 
Les  principes  secrets  de  prendre  et  d'être  pris." 

'    "Segraisiana,"  pp.  133,  134. 


216  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

grows  gradually  is  too  much  like  friendship  to  be  a  vio- 
lent passion.'" 

Perhaps  these  sudden  effects,  these  sun-strokes  of  love, 
which  are  now  the  exclusive  property  of  our  worst  ro- 
mance-writers, were  then  able  to  obtain  the  belief  of  a 
philosopher.  Men  and  women,  whose  worldly  life  was 
ceaselessly  occupied  with  ideas  or  intrigues  of  love,  were 
naturally  always  susceptible,  or  at  least  thought  them- 
selves susceptible  of  its  influence  ;  and  if,  as  La  Roche- 
foucauld observes,  "there  are  some  people  who  would 
never  have  fallen  in  love,  if  they  had  never  heard  love 
mentioned,"  many  persons,  through  hearing  it  talked  of 
wherever  they  went,  fancied  they  had  found  it  where  it 
did  not  exist. 

Surprised  at  these  effects  of  the  imagination,  some 
men  endeavor  to  explain  them  by  other  causes  than  the 
influence  of  the  stars  ;  and  these  causes  were  generally 
of  a  most  ridiculous  character.  In  order  to  prove  that 
the  seat  of  love  is  in  the  blood,  Segrais  relates  a  story  of 
a  German  gentleman  whose  faithless  mistress,  desiring 
to  get  rid  of  him,  tan  him  twice  through  the  body  with  a 
sword.  He  did  not  die  of  his  wounds  ;  but,  strange  to 
say,  when  he  had  recovered,  says  Segrais,  "  he  felt  as 
much  indifference  for  the  princess  as  if  he  had  never 
loved  her,  and  he  attributed  this  to  his  loss  of  blood. '"^ 

This  amorous  devotion — ^the  consequence  of  a  fatal 
destiny — was  then  the  ideal  of  a  belle  passion,  at  least 
as  regarded  the  perfect  lover  ;  for  fatality,  to  which  the 
heart  of  his  mistress  was  equally  subject,  could  have 
no  influence  upon  her  conduct  toward  him.  The  ladies 
held  firmly,  at  least  in  theory,  by  this  principle,  which 
was  as  favorable  to  their  vanity  as  to  their  virtue.     Sole» 

*  La  Bruyère,  "  Caractères,"  pp.  179,  180. 
'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.   10. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  -  217 

ly  intrusted  with  the  care  and  duty  of  defending  them- 
selves, they  felt  themselves  all  the  more  powerful  he- 
cause  so  high  a  value  was  set  on  the  happiness  of  a  pas- 
sion which  accomplished  the  destiny  of  the  loftiest  souls. 
The  proofs  of  this  high  price  of  their  conquest  constituted 
their  glory  ;  for  "  a  woman's  glory"  was  then  a  common 
phrase.  Madame  de  Sévigné,  when  she  declared  that 
"the  honor  of  these  gentlemen  is  quite  as  delicate  and 
tender  as  that  of  these  ladies,"  believed  she  had  almost 
made  a  discovery  ;  and  the  Academy  pronounced,  in  its 
"  Opinions  on  the  '  Cid,'"  that  if  "  it  had  been  allowable 
for  the  poet  to  make  one  of  the  two  lovers  prefer  love  to 
duty,  it  may  be  said  that  it  would  have  been  more  ex- 
cusable to  lay  this  fault  on  Rodrigue  than  on  Chimène  ;  as 
Rodrigue  was  a  man,  and  his  sex — which  is,  as  it  were, 
entitled  to  shut  its  eyes  on  all  considerations  in  order 
to  satisfy  its  love — would  have  rendered  his  action  less 
strange  and  less  unsupportable."' 

This  is  the  key  to,  the  almost  constant  superiority  of 
Corneille's  heroines  over  his  heroes.  She  who  commands 
both  herself  and  others,  in  the  most  important  circum- 
stance of  life,  must  be,  under  all  circumstances,  the  most 
illustrious  ;  and  after  the  decision  of  the  Academy,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  Corneille  should  have  sacrificed  the 
inflexibility  of  Cinna  to  the  advantage  of  bringing  Emi- 
lie's  unyielding  nature  into  strong  relief.  But  it  will 
then  be  equally  evident  to  what  frivolous  interests  that 
glory  must  be  attached  which  is  based  upon  the  petty 
events  of  a  woman's  life,  and  judged  by  the  caprices  of 
her  vanity.  No  further  astonishment  will  be  felt  at  bo- 
holding  Eurydice,  in  "  Suréna,"  deliver  her  lover  to  death 
by  her  obstinacy  in  desiring  that,  as  he  can  not  marry 

'  See  the  Appendix  to  Voltaire's  edition  of  the  "  Cid,"  p   392. 

K 


218  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

her,  he  should  marry  none  but  the  person  of  her  choice. 
"  T  will,"  she  exclaims — 

" Malgré  votre  roi, 

Disposer  d'une  main  qui  ne  peut  être  à  moi. 
Je  veux  que  ce  grand  choix  soit  mon  dernier  ouvrage, 
Qu'il  tienne  lieu  vers  moi  d'un  éternel  hommage, 
Que  mon  ordre  le  règle,  et  qu'on  me  voie  enfin 
Reine  de  votre  cœur  et  de  votre  destin." 

TLe  same  whim  assists  Bérénice  to  console  herself  for 
the  loss  of  Titus  : 

"  Je  veux  donner  le  bien  que  je  n'ose  garder  ; 
Je  veux  du  moins,  je  veux  ôter  à  ma  rivale, 
Ce  miracle  vivant,  cette  âme  sans  égale. 
Qu'en  dépit  des  Romains,  leur  digne  souverain . 
S'il  prend  une  moitié,  la  prenne  de  ma  main  ; 
Et  pour  tout  dire  enfin,  je  veux  que  Bérénice 
Ait  une  créature  en  leur  impératrice." 

Corneille's  "  Sophonisbe,"  the  ill-success  of  which  Saint- 
Evrcraond  ascribes  solely  to  the  excessive  perfection  with 
which  Corneille  had  retained  "her  true  character'" — this 
daughter  of  Hasdrubal,  amidst  her  hatred  of  the  Romans, 
and  her  dread  of  slavery,  regards  the  pleasure  of  robbing 
a  rival  of  Masinissa's  affection  as  the  greatest  happiness 
of  that  marriage  which  is  to  deprive  her  of  her  triumph. 
The  lovers  of  these  illustrious  coquettes,  devotedly  sub- 
missive to  their  whims,  await,  as  Antiochus  pleases,  with- 
out rebellion  and  without  blasphemy,  whatever  it  may 
please  their  glory  to  ordain  ;  and  tricks  of  vanity  mingle 
without  effort,  in  Corneille's  latest  pieces,  with  exaggera- 
tions of  pride  through  which  some  few  scintillations  of 

'  Corneille,  who  almost  alone  possesses  the  good  taste  of  antiquity,  has 
had  the  misfortune  of  not  pleasing  our  age,  for  having  entered  into  the 
genius  of  those  nations,  and  preserved  to  the  daughter  of  Hasdrubal  her 
true  character.  Thus,  to  the  shame  of  our  judgments,  he  who  has  surpassed 
all  our  authors,  and  who  has,  perhaps,  here  surpassed  himself,  has  restored 
to  these  great  names  all  that  was  due  to  them,  and  has  not  been  able  to 
oblige  us  to  render  to  himself  all  that  we  owe  to  him.'' — Saint-EvremOnd, 
"Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  pp.  141,  112.  ,  ,'    *;<;  ^ 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  219 

gcnivis  and  mementoes  of  greatness  are  discernible  only 
at  rare  intervals. 

Once  entered  upon  a  false  train  of  ideas,  Corneille  was 
unable  to  regain  the  true  path  by  using  that  resource 
which  is  supplied  by  the  observation  of  the  natural  feel- 
ings ;  for  he  had  become  too  accustomed  to  seek  them 
solely  in  his  imagination.  The  imagination  mingles  much 
that  is  false  with  the  truth  which  it  presents  ;  it  creates 
for  the  poet  a  kind  of  private  world,  placed  between  him 
and  the  real  world  which  he  no  longer  cares  to  contem- 
plate, for  he  no  longer  even  suspects  its  existence.  Into 
this  world  of  fancy  which  Corneille  had  formed  for  him- 
self, swayed  by  the  turn  of  mind  of  his  contemporaries, 
and  placing  at  their  service  the  logical  firmness  of  his 
imagination,  he  no  longer  received  the  light  whicli  the 
natural  emotions  of  our  soul  cast  upon  the  objects  which 
excite  them.  Justice,  goodness,  indeed  all  the  human 
virtues,  were  feelings  before  they  were  ideas  ;  who  would 
ever  have  imagined  generosity  and  dévotement,  if  feelings 
had  not  first  made  him  aware  of  their  existence  ?  By  the 
order  of  these  feelings,  as  they  exist  in  a  happy  nature, 
properly  developed  by  reflection,  the  order  of  our  duties 
is  regulated.  Never  will  the  most  exalted  soul,  never 
will  the  severest  virtue,  sacrifice  a  single  one  of  these 
duties,  unless  the  sacrifice  be  commanded  by  a  more  im- 
portant duty  :  and  where  this  consciousness  of  a  superior 
duty  does  not  exist,  the  sacrifice  is  unjust,  the  virtue 
is  counterfeit,  and  the  appearance  of  greatness  is  decep- 
tive. Old  Horace,  when  he  believes  that  his  son  has  fled, 
forgets  his  paternal  love,  and  desires,  nay  more,  almost 
commands,  the  death  of  his  son  ;  but  love  of  his  country, 
the  obligations  imposed  upon  his  family  by  the  confidence 
of  his  fellow-citizens,  the  criminality  of  the  coward  who 
had  betrayed  that  confidence,  and  even  the  advantage  of 


220'  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

his  son,  for  whom  death  would  be  a  thousand  times  more 
preferable  than  an  infamous  life — all  these  are  feelings 
so  powerful,  and  of  so  exalted  an  order,  that  we  are  not 
surprised  to  see  that  they  gain  the  victory  over  even  pa- 
ternal love,  the  well-known  force  of  which  only  adds  to 
the  admiration  inspired  by  the  superior  force  which  has 
conquered  it.  But  when  K-osamonde,  the  widow  of  Per- 
tharite,'  threatened  with  the  death  of  her  son  if  she  will 
not  consent  to  marry  Grimoald,  the  usurper  of  her  hus- 
band's kingdom,  declares  to  Grrimoald  that  she  will  marry 
him  only  on  condition  that  he  will  put  her  son  to  death, 
because  she  hopes  that  so  atrocious  an  act,  by  destroying 
the  affection  felt  by  the  people  for  Grimoald's  virtues, 
will  render  vengeance  more  easy  to  herself,  we  feel  nei- 
ther admiration  nor  sympathy  for  her  conduct  ;  for  the 
thirst  for  vengeance  could  never  be  sufficiently  powerful, 
or  appear  sufficiently  legitimate,  to  stifle  not  only  a  moth- 
er's love  for  her  offspring,  but  also  that  sentiment  of  just- 
ice which  forbids  us  to  sacrifice  an  innocent  being  to  the 
memory  or  even  to  the  interests  of  another.  Rosamonde's 
proposition  is,  therefore,  opposed  to  all  human  and  poetic 
truth.  Fontenelle,  seeking  for  the  cause  of  the  ill  suc- 
cess of  "  Pertharite,"  attributes  it  to  oldness  of  mind, 
which,  he  says,  "  brings  dryness  and  harsliness  in  its 
train."  ^  But  Corneille  was  not  old  when  he  wrote 
"  Pertharite  ;"  ^  and  he  had  no  more  reasons  for  being 
harsh  at  forty-seven  years  of  age,  when  he  had  four  sons,"* 

'  Or  at  least  his  supposed  widow  ;  for  Pertharite  is  not  dead,  but  re- 
appears at  the  end  of  the  piece. 

^  Fontenelle,  "Vie  dc  Corneille,"  p.  108. 

^  He  was  forty-seven  years  old. 

•*  ("orneille  had  four  sons  and  two  daughters.  His  eldest  son,  Pierre 
Corneille,  was  a  captain  of  cavalry,  and  was  wounded,  in  1667,  at  the  siege 
of  Douai,  which  was  captured  on  the  6tli  of  July,  by  Louis  XIV.  He  was 
brought  back  to  Paris  on  a  litter  ])lontifulIy  supplied  with  straw.  On  ar- 
riving at  the  door  of  his  father's  house,  in  the  Kue  d'Argenteuil,  the  por- 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  221 

than  when  he  was  thirty-eight  years  old,'  and  just  mar- 
ried ;  and  certainly  he  still  possessed  many  more  lively 
and  true  feelings  than  arc  required  to  enlighten  and  reg- 
ulate the  mind.  But  a  false  system,  the  fruit  of  his  sub- 
mission to  the  ideas  of  his  time,  would  not  allow  him  to 
listen  to  his  own  feelings,  and  thus  to  paint  nature  with 
truthfulness  ;  so  that  the  nature  which  ho  reproduced 
was  as  factitious  and  false  as  the  ideas  of  his  contempo- 
raries. 

The  style  of  Corneille  varied  with  the  vicissitudes  of 
his  genius.  Astonishment  has  been  expressed  at  this  ; 
but  there  would  have  been  more  room  for  astonishment- 
had  it  been  otherwise,  and  had  his  style  not  remained 
faithful,  both  in  good  and  evil  fortune,  to  the  character 
of  his  thoughts.  Writing  was  never  any  thing  to  him 
but  the  expression  of  his  ideas  ;  and  his  contemporaries 
attest  that  carefulness  of  stylo  was  of  no  avail  in  effects 
which  were  entirely  due  to  the  grandeur  of  the  subjects 
which  he  had  to  depict.  "  Corneille,"  says  Segi-ais,  "was 
not  conscious  of  the  beauty  of  his  versification,  and  while 
writing  he  paid  attention  not  to  harmony,  but  only  to 
feeling."  And  Chapelain  informs  us,  that  "  Corneille, 
who  has  written  such  noble  poetry,  was  unacquainted 

ters,  solely  intent  upon  carrying  the  wounded  man  into  his  room,  scattered 
the  straw  about  the  street.  This  was  during  the  early  days  of  that  strict 
system  of  police  established  in  Paris  by  the  administration  of  Louis  XIV., 
and  so  strenuously  enforced  by  D'Aubray  and  La  Reynie.  The  commis- 
saries and  inspectors  rigorously  executed  the  orders  they  had  received. 
One  of  them  cited  Pierre  Corneille  before  the  lieutenant  of  police,  at  the 
Châtelet,  for  contravening  the  regulations  in  reference  to  the  public  thorough- 
fares. Corneille  appeared,  pleaded  his  own  cause,  and  was  immediately 
nonsuited,  amidst  the  applause  of  the  spectators,  who  conducted  him  home 
in  triumph.  This  incident  is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  conversations 
and  anecdote-books  of  the  time,  and  Loret  inserted  an  account  of  it  in  his 

"  Muse  Historique,"  in  the  form  of  a  poetical  letter  to  Madame ,  by 

Robinet.  See  Appendix  D.  I  am  indebted  to  M.  Floquet  for  the  discovery 
and  communication  of  this  interesting  little  fact. 

'  The  age  at  which  he  wrote  "  Polyeucte."  .      «'■■ 


222  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

v>àth  the  art  of  versification,  and  it  was  purely  nature 
that  acted  in  him."'  An  artistic  style,  which,  at  the 
time  when  Corneille  appeared,  constituted  almost  the 
whole  merit  of  a  fashionable  poet,  had  very  little  indeed 
to  do  with  the  merit  of  a  dramatic  author.  Corneille 
introduced  style  into  the  drama  by  introducing  thoughts  ; 
he  said  simply  what  he  meant,  and  he  therefore  spoke 
nobly,  for  what  he  had  to  say  was  high  and  noble.  The 
expression  naturally  clothed  itself  with  the  sublimity  of 
that  which  it  was  intended  to  convey— or,  rather,  in  the 
sublimity  of  his  poetry,  the  expression  appeared  to  count 
for  nothing,  for  it  was  the  thing  itself.  ^'In  Corneille's 
writings,"  says  Saint-Evremond,  "  grandeur  is  self-rec- 
ognized ;  thé  figures  that  he  employs  are  worthy  of  it, 
when  he  intends  to  beautify  it  with  any  ornament  ;  but, 
ordinarily,  he  neglects  these  vain  shows  ;  he  does  not  go 
to  the  skies  to  seek  for  something  to  increase  the  value 
of  that  which  is  sufficiently  important  upon  earth  ;  it  is 
enough  for  him  to  enter  thoroughly  into  a  matter,  and 
tile  complete  image  which  he  givea  of  it  forms  that  true 
impression  which  persons  of  good  sense  love  to  receive."  ^ 
Corneille  himself  would  have  vainly  sought  "in  the 
skies"  for  wherewithal  "  to.-increase  the  value"  of  some 
of  the  feelings  which  he  presents  to  our  view  ;  they  are 
so  lofty  that,  as  nothing  can  exceed  them,  expression  can 
add  nothing  to  them  ;  and  yet  they  are  so  determinate 
and  precise  that  there  are  not  two  ways  of  expressing 
them. 

We  must  not,  therefore,  expect  to  find  in  Corneille 
that  poetical  expression  which  is  intended  to  increase 
the  impression  produced  by  an  object,  by  connecting 
with  it  accessory  ideas  which  Ihe  object  would  not  have 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  pp.  76,  187. 

^  Sainl-Evremond,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  iv.  p.  16. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  223 

suggested  of  itself.  We  shall  find  in  his  writings  that 
poetry  which  displays  the  object  as  it  really  is,  and 
places  it  before  our  eyes  endowed  with  life  and  anima- 
tion, by  using  words  that  are  truly  adapted  to  describe 
it.  The  narrative  given  by  Rodrigue,  in  the  "Cid,"  pre- 
sents a  fine  example  of  this  : 

"  Cette  obscure  clarté  qui  tombe  des  étoiles 
Enfin,  avec  le  flux,  nous  fil  voir  trente  voiles  ; 
L'onde  s'enlioit  dessous,  et,  d'un  commun  effort, 
Les  Maures  et  la  mer  entrèrent  dans  le  port.  r 

On  les  laisse  passer,  tout  leur  paroît  tranquille  ; 
Point  de  soldats  au  port  ;  point  aux  murs  de  la  ville 
Notre  profond  silence  abusant  leurs  esprits. 
Ils  n'osent  plus  douter  de  nous  avoir  surpris. 
Ils  abordent  sans  peur,  ils  ancrent,  ils  descendent, 
Et  courent  se  livrer  aux  mains  qui  les  attendent. 
Nous  nous  levons  alors  ;  et,  tous  en  même  temps, 
Poussons  jusques  au  ciel  mille  cris  éclatants.  .  .  .  ." 

Ail  these  expressions  are  simple — just  those  which  a 
man  would  use  who  washed  to  narrate  the  occurrences 
of  which  the  Cid  is  speaking;  but  the  Cid  mentions 
only  those  matters  which  are  worth  mentioning.  All 
necessary  circumstances,  and  these  alone,  he  brings  be- 
fore our  eyes,  because  he  has  seen  them  ;  he  could  not  fail 
to  see  them  in  the  position  in  which  he  was  placed,  and 
into  that  position  he  transfers  us.     This  is  true  poetry. 

But  the  nature  of  the  objects  to  be  represented  does 
not  always  admit  of  this,  so  to  speak,  material  descrip- 
tion. It  frequently  happens  that  the  picture,  being  too 
vast  to  be  reproduced  in  all  its  details,  requires  to  bo 
confined  within  a  single  image,  which  shall  nevertheless 
convey  an  impression  of  the  whole.  The  employment 
of  figurative  expressions  then  becomes  necessary  ;  and 
this  is  the  character  of  Cinna's  narrative  : 

"  Je  leur  fais  des  tableaux  de  ces  tristes  batailles 
Où  Rome  par  ses  mains  décliiroit  ses  entrailles, 


224  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

Où  l'aigle  abattoit  l'aigle,  et,  de  chaque  côté, 
Nos  légions  s'armoient  contre  leur  liberté  ; 
Où  les  meilleurs  soldats  et  les  chefs  les  plus  braves 
Mettoient  toute  leur  gloire  à  devenir  esclaves  : 
Où,  pour  mieux  assurer  la  honte  de  leurs  fers, 
Tous  vouloient  à  leur  chaîne  attacher  l'univers  ; 
'     ,     Et  l'exécrable  honneur  de  lui  donner  un  maître. 
Faisant  aimer  à  tous  l'infâme  nom  de  traître, 
Romains  contre  Romains,  parens  contre  parens, 
Combattoient  seulement  pour  le  choix  des  tyrans. 
J'ajoute  à  ce  tableau  la  peinture  effroyable 
De  leur  concorde  impie,  affreuse,  inexorable, 
Funeste  aux  gens  de  bien,  aux  riches,  au  sénat, 
Et  pour  tout  dire  enfin,  de  leur  triumvirat, 
Mais  je  ne  trouve  point  de  couleurs  assez  noires 
Pour  en  représenter  les  tragiques  histoires  ; 
Je  les  peins  dans  le  meurtre  à  l'envi  triomphans  ; 
Rome  entière  noyée  au  sang  de  ses  enfans," 


No  details  could  in  this  case  have  presented  before  the 
imagination  all  that  is  here  exhibited  to  its  view,  en 
groupe,  by  two  or  three  fine  images.  The  remainder  of 
the  narrative  is  favorable  to  the  introduction  of  details, 
and  Cinna,  resuming  the  simple  tone  of  narration,  ceases 
to  paint  matters  figuratively,  and  limits  his  efforts  to 
displaying  them  in  their  reality  ;  but  at  the  end,  when 
he  finds  it  necessary  to  sum  up  his  speech  and  to  reduce 
the  different  emotions  which  he  has  awakened  to  a  single 
feeling  and  idea,  he  thus  proceeds  : 

" Toutes  ces  cruautés, 

La  perte  de  nos  biens  et  de  nos  libertés. 

Le  ravage  des  champs,  le  pillage  des  villes, 

Et  les  proscriptions  et  les  guerres  civiles, 

Sont  les  degrés  sanglants  dont  Auguste  a  fait  choix 

Pour  monter  sur  le  trône  et  nous  donner  des  loix. 

Mais  nous  pouvons  changer  un  destin  si  funeste. 

Puisque  de  trois  tyrans  c'est  le  seul  qui  nous  reste  ; 

Et  que,  juste  une  fois,  il  s'est  privé  d'appui, 

Perdant,  pour  régner  .seul,  deux  méchans  comme  lui. 

Lui  mort,  nous  n'avons  point  de  vengeur  ni  de  maître  ; 

Avec  la  liberté  Kome  s'en  va  renaître  ; 

Et  nous  mériterons  le  nom  de  vrais  Romains, 

Si  le  joug  qui  l'accable  est  brisé  par  nos  mains." 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  225 

In  this  speech,  which  is  one  of  the  finest  productions 
of  his  pen,  Corneille,  making  a  simple  and  sober  use  of 
the  necessary  figures,  employs  them  to  express  his  idea, 
but  never  to  extend  it  beyond  its  natural  limits.  Per- 
haps, among  Corneille's  most  poetical  expressions,  we 
shall  find  few  which  do  not  possess  this  merit  ;  they 
aie  generally  the  result  of  a  vigorous  conception  which 
clearly  discerns  its  object,  and  which,  far  from  sur- 
rounding it  with  accessory  ideas,  removes  them  to  a  dis- 
tance in  order  to  present  it  in  isolated  distinctness  to 
the  imagination.  Thus,  in  these  celebrated  lines  from 
"  Othon  :" 

"  Je  les  voyois  tous  trois  se  hâter  sous  un  maître 
Qui,  chargé  d'un  long  âge,  a  peu  de  temps  de  l'être, 
Et  tous  trois  à  l'cnvi  s'empresser  ardemment 
A  qui  dévoreroit  ce  règne  d'un  moment, — " 

the  image  of  "  devouring  a  reign"  is  only  the  sensible 
expression  of  a  fact  which,  in  no  other  manner,  could  be 
treated  with  as  much  felicity  and  power  ;  it  places  the 
fact  itself  beneath  our  eyes,  but  adds  nothing  to  it.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  this  other  line  : 

"  Et  monté  sur  le  faîte  il  aspire  à  descendre." .     . 

Corneille  has  embellished  nothing  and  disguised  nothing  ; 
his  style,  guided  by  his  thought,  naturally  rose  and  fell 
with  it  ;  and  he  appears  obscure  only  when  an  ill-con- 
ceived idea  or  an  inopportune  sentiment  has  failed  to 
furnish  him  with  a  sufficiently  precise  expression  or  a 
sufficiently  simple  turn  of  phrase.  He  never  disdains  to 
use  the  trivial  language  which  is  required  by  a  trivial 
emotion  or  position.  In  "Agésilas,"  for  example,  he 
puts  these  words  into  the  mouth  of  a  lover  who  is  press- 
ing his  mistress  to  confess  her  love  for  him  : 

"Dites  donc,  m'aimez-vous T' 


226  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

A  puerile  idea  is  always  rendered  in  all  its  puerility, 
and  the  description  of  Attila's  bleeding  at  the  nose  iî 
worthy  of  the  idea  which  suggested  the  adaptation  of 
this  accident  to  the  purposes  of  tragedy  : 

"  Le  sang  qu'après  avoir  mis  ce  prince'  au  tombeau. 
On  lui  voit  chaque  jour  distiller  du  cerveau, 
Punit  son  parricide,  et  chaque  jour  vient  faire 
Un  tribut  étonnant  à  celui  de  ce  frère." 

The  word  brutal.,  which  is  used  hy  Pulchérie  in  speaking 
of  Phocas,  is  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  idea  which 
she  has  formed  of  his  character.  In  fine,  the  weakness 
of  the  poet's  thought  is  manifested  with  as  little  disguise 
as  its  greatness  ;  and  if  he  seeks  to  trick  it  out  with  a 
few  ornaments,  the  abuses  of  mind  to  which  he  has  re- 
course, the  falsity  of  the  images  which  he  employs,  and 
the  vain  inflation  of  his  expressions,  prove,  as  powerfully 
as  the  sublime  simplicity  of  his  beauties,  that  "  art  was 
not  made  for  him."  Corneille  could  not  have  made  use 
of  art  ;  and  what  his  age  failed  to  supply  him  with  was 
a  more  simple  riature,  less  overloaded  by  a  multitude  of 
conventionalisms  and  factitious  habits,  which  he  took  for 
truth.  If  the  state  of  society  and  the  general  character 
of  ideas,  at  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  had  been  in 
greater  conformity  to  the  simplicity  of  his  genius,  per- 
haps, in  one  of  our  first  poets,  we  should  have  also  pos- 
sessed a  classic  poet.  Corneille  is  not  a  classic;  he  is 
too  deficient  in  that  taste  which  is  based  upon  a  knowl- 
edge of  truth,  to  serve  always  as  a  model  ;  but  beauties 
beyond  all  comparison  have  nevertheless  established  his' 
rank,  and  after  a  century  and  a  half  of  literary  affluence 
and  glory,  no  rival  has  deprived  him  of  his  title  of 
"  Grreat."  Even  his  failures  may  be  Jield  to  confirm  his 
right  to  this  name  ;  before  the  time  of  Corneille,  "  Per- 

'  His  brother  Bleda. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  227 

tharite,"  "  Othon,"  "  Suréna,"  "Attila,"  and  even  "Agé- 
silas,"  would  have  been  received  with  admiration  by  a 
public  whom  he  alone  had  rendered  critical.  "  Pcrtha- 
rite"  was  the  first  of  his  pieces  which  experienced  this 
severe  treatment.  "  The  fall  of  the  great  Corneille," 
says  Fontenelle,  "  may  be  numbered  among  the  most  re- 
markable examples  of  Ihe  vicissitudes  of  human  affairs  ; 
even  Belisarius  asking  alius  is  not  more  striking."' 
Corneille  felt  this  blow  to  be  a  misfortune  to  which  he 
had  not  believed  himself  exposed  ;  and  somewhat  of  bit- 
terness is  manifested  in  his  preface *to  "  Pertharite."  "It 
is  just,"  he  says,  "  that  after  twenty  years  of  labor,  I 
should  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  growing  too  old  to 
continue  in  vogue."  Taking  leave  of  the  public,  "be- 
fore," he  says,  "they  entirely  took  leave  of  him,"  he 
spent  six  years  in  perfect  retirement,  devoting  himself  to 
a  metrical  translation  of  the  "Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ." 
This  work  must  be  considered  as  a  production  of  his 
piety  rather  than  of  his  genius,  although  it  occasionally 
exhibits  brilliant  traces  of  superior  talent.*  I  shall  not 
here  refer  to  this  poem,  or  to  a  considerable  number  of 
pieces  of  verse,  written  both  in  his  youth  and  in  his  old 
age,^  as  they  only  prove  that  the  drama  was  the  imperious 
vocation  of  Corneille,  and  the  only  field  in  which  he  could 
appear  with  glory.     Of  this  he  was  personally  conscious  : 

"  Pour  moi,  qui  âe  louer  n'eus  jamais  le  méthode, 
J'ignore  encor  le  tour  du  sonnet  ou  de  l'ode  ; 
Mon  génie  au  théâtre  a  voulu  m'attacher  ; 
Il  en  a  fait  mon  sort,  je  dois  m'y  retrancher  : 
Partout  ailleurs  je  rampe  et  ne  suis  plus  moi-même."'' 


1  Fontenelle,  "Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  107..  *  See  Appendix  E. 

2  These  pieces  were  printed  in  the  edition  of  1758,  and  have  been  rcr 
printed  in  most  subsequent  editions  of  Comeille's  vrorks. 

■»  These  lines  occur  in  the  "  Remerciement  au  Roi,  pouT  l'avoir  compris 
dans  la  liste  des  gratifications  faites  aux  gens  de  lettres." 


228  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

"  He  was  well  acquainted  with  elegant  literature,  his- 
tory, and  politics,"  says  Fontenelle  ;  "but  he  regarded 
them  chiefly  in  their  reference  to  the  drama.  For  all  the 
other  branches  of  knowledge  he  had  neither  leisure  nor 
curiosity,  nor  indeed  much  esteem."  ' 

During  these  six  years  of  retirement,  also.  Corneille 
prepared  his  three  discourses  on  Dramatic  Poetry,  and 
wrote  his  Examinations  of  his  pieces — an  honorable  evi- 
dence of  the  good  faith  of  a  great  man  who  was  sincere 
enough  with  himself  to  confess  his  faults,  and  with  others, 
to  speak  without  affectation  of  his  talents.  They  furnish 
us  with  irrefragable  proofs  of  the  uprightness  and  strength 
of  his  reason,  which  was  deficient  only  in  experience  of 
the  world  ;  and  with  lessons  that  will  ever  be  useful  to 
dramatic  poets,  for  they  will  find  in  thorn  all  that  his 
experience  of  the  s'tage  had  taught  Corneille  regarding 
theatrical  positions  and  effects,  with  which  he  was  all 
the  better  acquainted  because  he  had  not  studied  them 
until  after  he  had  divined  their  character,  just  in  the 
same  way  as  he  sought  to  learn  the  rules  of  Aristotle 
in  order  to  justify  those  which  his  own  genius  had  dic- 
tated. 

His  determination  to  renounce  the  drama  was  not, 
however,  unalterable.  "  This,"  he  says  in  the  preface  to 
"  Pertharite,"  "will  be  the  last  importunity  of  this  kind 
with  which  I  shall  trouble  you  ;  not  that  I  have  adopted 
so  strong  a  resolution  that  it  can  not  be  broken,  but  there 
is  great  likelihood  that  I  shall  abide  by  it."  These  words 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  Corneille  entertained  some 
hope  that  attempts  would  be  made  to  induce  him  to 
abandon  the  intention  he  thus  formally  announced;  but 
he  was  not  disposed  to  bo  easily  satisfied  with  the  proofs 
0Ï  esteem  which  he  wouid  require.     His  dedications  too 

'  Fontenelle,  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  125. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  229 

plainly  show  of  what  nature  those  proofs  might  be,  and 
Boileau's  severe  lines  on — 

" Ces  auteurs  renommés, 

Dégoûtés  (le  gloire  et  d'argent  affamés," 

were,  it  is  said,  merely  the  repetition  of  a  saying  of  the 
great  Corneille.'  But  Corneille,  in  the  position  in  which 
he  was  placed,  considered  money  the  proof  of  his  glory, 
and  was  perhaps  as  much  offended  as  grieved  at  the 
mediocrity  of  his  fortune.  Gruided  in  all  that  concerned 
his  personal  conduct,  by  remarkably  simple  and  ingenu- 
ous good  sense,  he  had  always  observed  that  a  handsome 
price  was  paid  for  things  of  value,  and  he  felt  indignant 
that  this  recompense  was  denied  to  his  merit,     "Whatever 

'  "  Our  author  was  congratulating  the  great  Corneille  on  the  success  of 
his  tragedies,  and  the  glory  he  had  gained  thereby.  '  Yes,'  answered  Cor- 
neille, 'I  am  satiated  with  glory,  and  famished  for  money.'"  (Note  by 
Brossette,  to  the  "  Art  Poétique,"  canto  iv.  line  130.)  The  continual  com- 
plaints of  Corneille,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  reiterate  almost  in  the  same 
words  the  substance  of  this  answer,  whicli  Père  Tournemine  indignantly 
denies,  but  without  bringing  any  proof  to  the  contrary.  How,  he  asks,  can 
such  a  sentiment  have  been  attributed  to  Corneille,  "  who  is  known  to  have 
carried  his  indifference  for  money  almost  to  blâmable  carelessness  ;  who 
never  gained  from  his  pieces  any  thmg  but  what  the  actors  gave  him,  with- 
out making  any  bargains  with  them  ;  who  allowed  a  year  to  elapse  without 
thanking  M.  Colbert  for  the  renewal  of  his  pension  ;  who  lived  without  ex- 
pense and  died  without  property  T'  (See  the  "  Défense  du  grand  Corneille," 
in  vol.  i.  p.  81  of  his  works.)  A  "blâmable  carelessness"  for  money  is 
quite  compatible  with  pressing  wants,  which  compel  a  man  afterward  to 
solicit  too  vehemently  that  which  he  had  disdained  too  negligently.  "  M. 
Corneille,"  says  Fontenelle,  "  had  more  love  for  money  than  ability  or  ap- 
plication in  amassing  it."  No  man  feels  greater  indignation  that  his  wants 
are  not  all  supplied  than  he  who  can  not  himself  provide  for  them  by  pru- 
dence or  activity.  Much  has  been  said  of  the  disinterestedness  and  fraternal 
affection,  which,  until  the  death  of  Pierre  Corneille,  led  the  two  brothers  to 
consider  all  they  possessed  common  property,  and  united  both  families  into 
one.  I  have  no  wish  to  deprive  praiseworthy  conduct  of  the  merit  of  a  good 
motive  or  a  fine  feeling,  though  this  merit  is  more  common  than  is  gener- 
ally believed  ;  but  I  will  just  observe  that  this  disinterestedness  does  not  la 
the  slightest  degree  contradict  the  notion  that  has  been  transmitted  to  us 
of  Corneille's  neglect  of  his  pecuniary  affairs,  nor,  consequently,  of  the 
natural  results  of  such  neglect.     See  Appendix  F. 


230  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

he  thought  himself  allowed  to  feel,  he  considered  himself 
equally  at  liberty  to  express.  When  his  friends  found 
fault  with  him  for  not  maintaining,  by  his  conversation, 
the  reputation  he  had  gained  by  his  writings,  he  quietly 
replied  :  "  I  am  not  the  less  Pierre  Corneille."  Just  in 
the  same  manner,  he  frankly  said  to  the  world  that  Pierre 
Corneille  had  a  right  to  expect  better  treatment.  His 
wounded  pride  is  always  uppermost  in  his  complaints, 
and— 

"  L'ennui  de  voir  toujours  des  louanges  frivoles 
Rendre  à  ses  grands  travaux  paroles  pour  paroles," 

appeared  to  him  to  be  nothing  more  than 

"  Ce  légitime  ennui  qu'au  fond  de  l'âme  excite 
L'excusable  fierté  d'un  peu  de  vrai  mérite." 

Thus  he  explains  himself  in  an  epistle  to  Fouquet,  in- 
serted at  the  beginning  of  "  Œdipe."  This  epistle  con- 
veyed his  thanks  to  the  superintendent,  for  what  favor 
it  is  not  known;  but  this  favor  was  a  recollection,  and, 
there  is  reason  to  believe,  made  up  for  long  neglect.  Re- 
vived by  this  mark  of  esteem,  Corneille  desired  nothing 
more  than  to  resume  his  pen.  Fouquet,  "  the  superin- 
tendent," as  he  says,  "  not  less  of  literature  than  of  the 
finances,"  '  proposed  to  him  three  subjects  for  a  tragedy  ; 
Corneille  made  his  choice,  and,  in  1659,  "  Œdipe"  ap- 
peared. But  the  simple  beauties  of  Grrecian  antiquity 
were  not  destined  to  arouse  a  genius  which  had  achieved 
its  glory  an&  perfected  its  growth  among  the  ideas  and 
mental  idiosyncracies  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Cor- 
neille congratulated  himself  on  having  introduced,  into 
the  terrible  subject  of  Œdipus,  "  the  happy  episode  of  the 
loves  of  Theseus  and  Dirce,"  upon  which  he  has  concen- 

'  See  Appendix  G. 


PIEUIIE  CORNEILLE.  231 

trated  all  the  interest  of  the  drama.  "  This  has  deprived 
me,"  he  says,  "of  the  advantage  which  I  hoped  to  gain, 
of  being  frequently  only  the  translator  of  those  great  men 
who  have  preceded  me.  But  as  I  have  chosen  another 
course,  I  have  found  it  impossible  to  fall  in  with  them." 
He  further  informs  us  that  he  had  the  honor  of  obtaining 
an  avowal  from  most  of  his  auditors,  "  that  he  had  writteu 
no  dramatic  piece  which  contained  so  much  art  as  this."  ' 
This  unfortunate  ayt,  which  is  now  forgotten,  was  then 
crowned  with  success  ;  at  all  events,  "  Œdipe"  did  not 
fall  before  the  judgment  of  the  public,  and  the  Court, 
which  probably  only  sought,  by  rewarding  him,  to  adorn 
itself  with  a  glory  it  had  too  long  neglected,  manifested 
its  satisfaction  by  conferring  new  favors  upon  Corneille.* 
In  1661,  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage  of  Louis  XIV., 
he  wrote  the  "  Toison  d'Or,"  a  kind  of  opera,  preceded 
by  a  prologue,  into  which  the  peace  which  had  just  been 
concluded  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  introduce  some 
noble  lines  on  the  misfortunes  of  war.  In  1662,  an  ad- 
mirable scene  in  "  tSertorius"  rekindled  for  a  moment  the 
hopes  of  Corneille's  partisans.  It  was,  it  is  said,  on  hear- 
ing these  lines,  addressed  by  Sertorius  to  Pompey — 

"  Si  dans  l'occasion  je  ménage  un  peu  mieux 
L'assiette  du  pays  et  la  faveur  des  lieux," 

that  Turenne  exclaimed — "  "Where  did  Corneille  learn  the 
art  of  war?"  In  1663,  "  Sophonisbe"  failed  before  the 
recollection  of  Mairet's  piece  of  the  same  name,  and  not, 
as  Saint- Evremond  asserted,  because  Mairet,  by  depicting 
Sophonisbe  as  unfaithful  to  an  old  husband  for  the  sake 
of  a  young  lover,  "had  hit  upon  the  taste  of  the  ladies 
and  the  folks  at  court."'     In  1664,  "  Othon"  appeared  ; 

'  See  the  Preface  to  "  Œdipe."  '•  Ibid. 

^  Saint-Evrcmond,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  p.  141. 


232  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

it  contained  four  lines  which  have  continued  celebrated/ 
and  a  few  traces  of  that  firmness  in  the  treatment  of 
political  interests  and  court  intrigues  which  was  then  to 
be  found  in  Corneille  alone.  "We  must  believe,"  says 
Fontenelle,  "that  '  Agésilas'^  is  by  M.  Corneille,  because 
his  name  is  attached  to  it,  and  there  is  one  scene  between 
Agesilaus  and  Lysander  which  could  not  easily  have  been 
written  by  any  one  else."'  By  the  production  of  "Attila," 
Corneille,  to  use  his  nephew's  expression,  "  braved  the 
opinion  of  his  age,  the  taste  of  which,  he  perceived,  was 
turning  entirely  toward  the  most  passionate  and  least 
heroic  love."^  Though  we  may  not  agree  with  Fontenelle 
in  considering  the  development  of  this  tragedy  to  have 
been  "one  of  the  finest  things  that  Corneille  ever  did," 
we  may  recognize  in  it  some  traits  of  his  peculiar  vigor  ; 
among  others  that  well-known  line  on  the  decay  of  the 
Roman  Empire  and  the  commencement  of  the  kingdom 
of  the  Franks  : 

"Un  grand  destin  commence,  un  grand  destin  s'achève." 

But  the  scenes  between  Attila  and  the  capricious  Honorie 
are  far  more  suggestive  of  the  idea  of  a  quarrel  between 
a  ridiculous  tutor  and  his  unruly  pupil,  than  of  that 
"  noble  ferocity"  which  Fontenelle  is  pleased  to  attribute 
to  the  monarch  of  the  Huns;^ 

A  famous  epigram  by  Boileau  is  connected  with  the 
production  of  the  two  last-mentioned  pieces  ;°  but  it  has 


1  See  p.  261.  2  Published  in  1666. 

'  FuHtmelle,  "Vie  dc  Corneille,"  p.  112.  *  Ibid.  p.  116. 

'  "  There  prevails  througliout  this  piece  a  noble  ferocity  which  he  alone 
could  delineate."     Fontenelle,  "Vic  dc  Corneille,"  p.  116. 
*  "Après  l'Agésilas, 

Hélas  ! 
Mais  après  l'Attila, 
Holà." 


ÎIERRE  CORNEILLE.  233 

no  other  merit  than  that  of  expressing  with  considerable 
correctness  the  feeling  of  sorrow  universally  experienced 
at  beholding,  in  "  Agésilas,"  the  decay  into  which  a  great 
man  might  fall,  and  in  "Attila,"  how  important  it  was  to 
the  glory  of  Corneille  that  his  efforts  should  there  end. 
His  name,  nevertheless,  was  still  powerful.  Molière  chose 
him  to  versify  his  "  Psyche,"  which  he  had  not  time  to 
complete  himself  ;  and  Quinault,  though  already  well- 
known,  was  intrusted  only  with  the  interludes.  Cor- 
neille was  also  selected  by  Queen  Henrietta  of  England 
to  measure  his  strength  against  that  of  Racine  upon  a 
subject  devoted  to  the  description  of  the  pangs  of  love. 
This  subject — "  Bérénice,"  with  which,  it  is  said,  tender 
recollections  were  associated,' — was  treated  by  each  poet 
without  the  knowledge  of  the  other.  "  Who  will  gain  the 
victory  ? — the  youngest  ?"  says  Fontenelle,  forgetting  that 
it  was  the  great  and  old  Corneille  who  gave  the  greatest 
empire  to  love  and  the  most  weakness  to  a  Roman,  as  his 
Titus  proposes  to  Berenice  to  renounce  his  kingdom  for 
her  sake' — an  idea  which  Racine's  Titus  disdainfully 
rejects.'     Finally,  "  Pulchérie"  and  "  Suréna"  appeared, 


'  The  affection  which  Louis  XIV.  and  Henrietta  of  England  had  felt  for 

each  other,  and  which  they  had  sacrificed  to  the  dictates  of  reason  rather 

than  to  those  of  virtue. 

'  "  Eh  bien  !  Madame,  il  faut  renoncer  à  ce  titre 

Qui  de  toute  la  terre  en  vain  me  fait  l'arbitre  ;  '     . 

Allons  dans  vos  Etats  m'en  donner  un  plus  doux  : 

Ma  gloire  la  plus  haute  est  celle  d'être  à  vous. 

Allons  où  je  n'aurai  que  vous  pour  souveraine, 

Où  vos  bras  amoureux  seront  ma  seule  chaîne, 

Où  l'Hymen  en  triomphe  à  jamais  l'étreindra  :         ,       .  v   ■  ■ 

Et  soit  de  Rome  esclave  et  maître  qui  voudra!" 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  last  line  was  not  introduced  upon  a  worthier 

occasion. 

^  " Je  dois  moins  encore  vous  dire 

Que  je  suis  près,  pour  vous,  d'abandonner  l'empire, 
De  vous  suivre,  et  d'aller,  trop  content  de  mes  fers, 
Soupirer  avec  vous  au  bout  de  l'univers. 


234  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

notwithstanding  their  defects,  to  revive  the  recollection 
of  that  firm  and  imposing  grandeur  which  Corneille  had 
imparted  to  our  tragedy  ;  and  this  fine  saying  of  Eury- 
dice, on  learning  that  the  death  of  her  lover  has  been 
caused  by  her  obstinacy, 

"  Non,  je  ne  pleure  point,  Madame,  mais  je  meurs," 

formed  a  noble  termination  to  the  poet's  career — 

"  Et  son  dernier  soupir  fut  un  soupir  illustre." 

Corneille  was  then  nearly  seventy  years  of  age.  Look- 
ing backward,  he  could  say  with  just  pride,  "  I  have 
finished  my  course  ;  my  destiny  as  a  superior  man  is 
accomplished  ;  whatever  I  was  capable  of  doing  I  have 
done  ;  the  rank  that  I  was  worthy  to  obtain  I  have 
obtained  ;  nothing  more  remains  for  me  to  desire."  But 
few  men  can  thus  lay  down  for  themselves  the  limits  of 
their  existence — can  contemplate  themselves  only  in  the 
past  which  has  so  fully  belonged  to  them,  and  acknowl- 
edge the  justice  of  that  dispensation  of  Providence  which 
allots  to  each  of  us  the  time  that  each  is  to  enjoy.  Cor- 
neille, who  had  so  long  been  in  possession  of  undisputed 
superiority,  could  not  tranquilly  behold  the  rising  glory 
of  his  successors.  He  regarded  both  Molière  and  Racine 
with  dissatisfaction.  "  Sometimes,"  says  Fontenelle, 
"lie  placed  too  little  confidence  in  his  own  rare  merit, 
and  believed  too  easily  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
have  rivals."'  Nevertheless,  swayed  more  by  timidity 
than  envy,  he  regretted  the  triumphs  of  a  rival  less  than 

Vous-même  rougiriez  do  ma  hiche  conduite  ; 
Vous  verriez  ù  regret  marcher  à  votre  suite 
Un  indigne  empereur,  sans  empire,  sans  cour, 
Vil  spectacle  aux  humains  des  foiblesscs  d'amour." 

liariiir,  "  Hi-runice,"  act  v.  scene  6, 
'   FontcneUc,  "Vie  de  Corneille,"  p.  126. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  235 

he  feared  that  his  own  triumphs  would  be  forgotten  ;  and 
on  being  told,  in  1676,  that  three  of  his  plays  had  been 
performed  at  Court,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Est-il  vrai,  grand  monarque,  et  puis-je  me  vanter 
Que  tu  prennes  plaisir  à  me  ressusciter! 
Qu'au  bout  de  quarante  ans,  Cinua,  Pompée,  Horace, 
Reviennent  à  la  mode,  et  reprennent  leur  place  ?" 

Corneille  now  began  to  think  he  might  die,  and  felt 
exceedingly  anxious  for  a  little  popularity  ;  the  grief  of 
his  failures  seemed  almost  to  have  extinguished  in  him 
the  reinembrance  of  his  successes.  His  feeling  of  the 
state  of  abandonment  into  wliich  he  believed  he  had  fallen 
is  depicted  in  a  manner  which  fills  us  with  sympathy  for 
the  old  age  of  a  great  man,  in  some  lines  in  which  he  im- 
plores the  favor  of  Louis  XIV.  for  his  last  works  : 

"  Achève  :  les  derniers  n'ont  rien  qui  dégénère. 
Rien  qui  les  fasse  croire  enfans  d'un  autre  père  ; 
Ce  sont  des  malheureux  étoufîes  au  berceau, 
Qu'un  seul  de  tes  regards  tiieroit  du  tombeau. 


'  Agésilas'  en  foule  auroit  des  spectateurs. 

Et  '  Bérénice'  enfin  trouveroit  des  acteurs. 

Le  peuple,  je  l'avoue,  et  la  cour  les  dégradent  ; 

Je  foiblis,  ou  du  moins  ils  se  le  persuadent  : 

Pour  bien  écrire  encor  j'ai  trop  long- temps  écrit, 

Et  les  rides  du  front  passent  jusqu'à  l'esprit. 

Mais,  contre  cet  abus,  que  j'aurois  de  suffrages 

Si  tu  donnois  les  tiens  à  mes  derniers  ouvrages  ! 

Que  de  tant  de  bonté  l'impérieuse  loi 

Raméneroit  bientôt  et  peuple  et  cour  vers  moi  ! 

Tel  Sophocle  à  cent  ans  chamioit  encore  Athènes, 

Tel  bouillonnoit  encor  son  vieux  sang  dans  ses  veines, 

Diroient-ils  à  ren%'i " 

Corn«ille's  jealousy  was  like  that  of  a  child  who  re- 
quires a  smile  for  himself  whenever  any  caresses  are 
bestowed  upon  his  brother.  This  weakness  led  him  to 
see  cause  for  disquietude  in  every  event,  and  to  regard 
the  slightest  circumstance  as  an  object  of  dread.     "  He 


236  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF 

was  melancholy,"  says  Fontenelle,  "  and  he  required  more 
solid  subjects  for  hope  or  rejoicing,  than  for  grief  or  fear. 
His  incapacity  for  business  was  equaled  only  by  his 
aversion  to  it  ;  and  the  most  trivial  affairs  caused  him 
alarm  and  terror."  ' 

At  home,  "  his  humor  was  hasty,  and  apparently  rough 
sometimes;  but,  on  the  whole,  he  was  very  easy-temper- 
ed, a  ^ood  father,  a  good  husband,  a  good  relative — ten- 
der, and  full  of  friendship."*  In  society,  he  was  by 
turns  haughty  and  humble,  proud  of  his  genius,  but  in- 
capable of  deriving  any  authority  from  it.  At  the  close 
of  his  life,  this  weakness  of  his  character  was  greatly 
increased  by  the  successive  decay  of  his  bodily  organs. 
Corneille  survived  the  loss  of  his  faculties  for  a  year, 
and  died  on  the  1st  of  October,  1684,  at  the  age  of  seven- 
ty-eight. 

He  was  the  senior  member  of  the  French  Academy, 
into  which  he  was  admitted  in  1647.  He  had  presented 
himself  for  admission  in  1644  and  in  1646;  but  the 
statutes  of  the  Academy  had  pronounced  him  ineligible,  be- 
cause he  did  not  reside  in  Paris.  In  1644,  the  Advocate- 
General  Salomon  was  elected  in  preference  to  him,  and 
in  1646,  Duryer,  the  tragic  poet.  "  The  register  in  this 
place,"  says  Pelisson,  in  reference  to  this  second  nomina- 
tion, "  mentions  the  resolution  which  the  Academy  had 
adopted  alw^ays  to  prefer,  of  two  persons  who  each  pos- 
sessed the  necessary  qualifications,  that  one  who  was 
resident  in  Paris."  '  When  Corneille  had  removed  this 
obstacle  by  fixing  his  residence  in  Paris  during  a  great 
part  of  the  year,  no  rival  ventured  to  contest  his  claim. 
Balesdens,  a  distinguished  advocate  attached  to  the  serv- 
ice of  Chancellor  Seguier,  the  protector  of  the  Academy, 

'  Fontenelle,  "  Vie  de  Corneille,"  pp.  125,  126.  "  Ibid. 

•*  Pelisson,  "  Histoire  de  rAcadcmic,"  p.  362. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  237 

offered  himself  for  admission,  but  on  being  informed  that 
Corneille  was  also  a  candidate,  "  he  wrote  to  the  Acade- 
my a  letter  filled  with  compliments  to  it,  and  also  to  M. 
Corneille,  whom  he  prayed  the  company  to  prefer  to  him, 
protesting  that  he  deferred  the  honor  to  him  as  being  his 
due  by  all  sorts  of  reasons."  *  On  the  death  of  Corneille, 
the  Abbé  de  Lavau,  then  director  of  the  Academy,  and 
Racine,  the  director-elect,  both  claimed  the  right  of  pay- 
ing him  the  honors  granted  by  the  Academy  to  the  mem- 
ory of  each  of  its  members.  The  Abbe's  claim  was  al- 
lowed, and  Benserade,  who  excelled  in  the  art  of  express- 
ing pleasant  truths,  said  to  Racine,  "  If  any  one  had  a 
right  to  inter  M.  Corneille  it  was  you,  and  you  have  not 
done  it."  Three  months  afterward,  Racine  made  up  for 
his  disappointment  by  pronouncing  at  the  reception  of 
Thomas  Corneille,  who  succeeded  to  his  brother's  seat  in 
the  Academy,  a  splendid  panegyric  of  Pierre  Corneille, 
equally  remarkable  for  its  subject,  its  eloquence,  and  its 
orator. 

Racine  was  Corneille's  eulogist  and  Voltaire  his  com- 
mentator. The  genius  of  both  judges  is  pledge  of  their 
good  faith  ;  but  Voltaire's  genius  bore  little  resemblance 
to  that  of  Corneille,  and  this  dissimilarity  has  sometimes 
interfered  with  that  justice  which  one  great  man  loves  to 
render  to  another.  The  poet  of  the  tender  and  violent 
passions  did  not  always  feel  his  heart  open  to  those  beau- 
ties which  dry  our  tears  ;  the  favorite  of  the  elegant 
world  of  the  eighteenth  century  was  unable  to  overcome 
his  repugnance  to  the  coarse  incoherencies  of  a  tast« 
which  Corneille  was  the  first  to  form  ;  in  short,  the  haste 
of  too  easy  and  sometimes  too  careless  a  labor,  has  in- 
troduced into  Voltaire's  commentary,  a  sufficient  number 

'  Pelisso7i,  "  Histoire  de  l'Académie,"  p.  364. 


238  LIFE  AMD  WillTLNGS  OF 

of  errors  of  fact'  to  make  us  presume  the  existence  of 
those  errors  of  judgment  which  are,  in  reality,  so  appa- 
rent. By  bestowing  a  little  more  attention  on  the  work, 
and  showing  a  little  less  complacency  for  petty  passions, 


'  I  will  quote  only  two  instances  :  When  Felix,  in  "  Polyeucte,"  has  un- 
folded to  his  confidant,  Albin,  the  coward  hopes  which  are  kindled  within 
him  by  the  dangerous  position  of  Polyeucte,  he  adds  : 

"  Mais  que  plutôt  le  ciel  à  tes  yeux  me  foudroyé 
Qu'à  de  pensers  si  bas  je  puisse  consentir, 
Que  jusque-là  ma  gloire  ose  se  démentir  !" 
Albin  replies  : 

"  Votre  cœur  est  trop  bon  et  votre  âme  trop  haute." 
Upon  which  Voltaire  makes  this  reflection  :  "  Felix  at  least  says  that  he 
detests  such  base  thoughts,  and  we  can  partially  forgive  him  ;  but  can  we 
forgive  Albin  for  saying  that  his  soul  is  too  lofty  V 

Can  we  forgive  Voltaire  himself  for  having  so  strangely  misapprehended 
the  meaning  of  this  answer  of  Albin,  who  is  represented  throughout  the 
piece  as  an  honest  and  sensible  man,  who  courageously  defends  Pauline 
and  Polyeucte  against  his  master,  to  whom  he  is  continually  showing  the 
absurdity  of  his  fears  1  When  Felix,  with  whom  Sévère,  in  compliance 
with  Pauline's  entreaty,  has  been  interceding  on  behalf  of  Polyeucte,  says 
to  his  confidant  : 

"  Albin,  as-tu  bien  vu  la  fourbe  de  Sévère  1 
As-tu  bien  vu  sa  haine,  et  vois-tu  ma  misère  1" 
Albm  replies,  with  the  indignation  of  a  reasonable  man  : 

"  Je  n'ai  vu  rien  en  lui  qu'un  rival  généreux  ; 
Je  ne  vois  rien  en  vous  qu'un  père  rigoureux." 
A  moment  afterward  he  adds  : 

"  Grâce,  grâce,  seigneur!  que  Pauline  l'obtienne." 
On  another  occasion  lie  represents  the  danger  to  which  he  will  expose  him- 
self by  putting  Polyeucte  to  death,  both  from  the  people  and  from  the  Em- 
/peror.  Indeed,  the  character  which  Albin  displayed  throughout  the  piece 
is  manifested  in  the  line  to  which  Voltaire  objects  ;  it  will  be  evident  to 
those  who  read  it,  I  will  not  say  with  attention,  but  without  prejudice,  that 
Albin's  answer  means  simply  this  :  "  Your  heart  is  too  kind  and  your  soul 
too  lofty  to  allow  you  to  stoop  to  such  base  cowardice  ;"  and  it  is  plain  that 
hconly  alludes  to  Felix's  loftiness  of  soul  to  prevent  him  from  stooping  to 
too  great  degradation. 

In  "  Œdipe,"  which,  in  truth,  may  excuse  the  inattention  of  the  com- 
mentator, mention  is  made  of  a  certain  Phœdimc,  who  had  just  died  of  the 
plague,  and  to  whose  care  the  son  of  Laius  was  intrusted.  Voltaire,  mis- 
led by  the  name,  speaks  of  this  person  as  a  woman  :  ''  Phœdime  knew  who 
this  child  was,  but  she  is  dead  of  the  plague."  This  error  would  not  be 
worthy  of  correction  if  it  did  not  prove  the  carelessness  of  the  commentator. 
Such  examples  might  bo  multiplied  to  almost  any  extent. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE.  239 

he  would  have  given  excellence  to  a  work  which,  not- 
withstanding its  frequently  minute,  and  sometimes  Cvces- 
sive,  severity,  is  on  the  whole,  by  the  abundance,  just- 
ness, delicacy,  and  perspicuity  of  the  observations  which 
it  contains,  a  model  of  literary  criticism.  Voltaire  de- 
sired to  perform  an  act  of  justice  and  kindness  to  the 
name  and  family  of  Corneille  ;  and  it  is  much  to  be  de- 
plored that,  yielding  to  the  natural  weaknesses  of  his 
mind  and  character,  he  did  not  conceive  and  execute  his 
design  with  sufficient  care  and  conscientiousness  to  ren- 
der it  a  monument  worthy  both  of  Corneille  and  of  him- 
self. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN. 

(1595—1674.) 


At  once  a  poet  and  a  critic — admired  as  a  poet  during 
his  lifetime,  at  least,  until  the  publication  of  the  "  Pu- 
celle,"  and  revered  as  a  critic  by  his  contemporaries,  even 
after  his  death — Jean  Chapelain  may  be  taken  as  the 
faithful  representative  of  the  taste  of  an  age  of  which  he 
was  the  oracle.  Even  when  readers  ceased  to  admire  his 
poems,  they  did  not  charge  them  with  having  belied  his 
principles,  and  his  authority  in  the  literary  world  was 
in  no  degree  diminished  by  the  disfavor  with  which  his 
poetry  was  regarded.  To  his  writings,  therefore,  we 
must  look  for  information  as  to  what  was  known  and 
thought  in  reference  to  poetical  art,  in  the  early  part  of 
the  seventeenth  century  :  and  as  the  judge  of  Corneille 
and  predecessor  of  Boileau,  Chapelain  is  deserving  of  at- 
tention. 

Jean  Chapelain,  the  son  of  a  Paris  notary,  was  born 
on  the  4th  or  5th  of  December,  1595.  His  father's  pro- 
fession would  have  well  siiited  his  peaceful  and  prudent 
character,  and  his  gentle,  sedate  and  orderly  mind  ;  but 
"  if  his  star,  at  his  birth,"  had  not  "formed  him  a  poet," 
he  was,  at  all  events,  predestined  to  write  verses.  His 
mother  was  a  daughter  of  Michel  Corbière,  the  friend  of 
Ronsard.  Her  youth  had  been  impressed,  and  her  im- 
agination was  still  filled,  with  admiration  for  the  "Prince 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  241 

of  Poets  ;"  she  coveted  the  same  glory  for  a  son  whose 
precocity  of  intellect  was  highly  flattering  to  the  hopes 
of  her  maternal  pride  ;  and  if  she  had  been  satisfied  with 
wishing  her  son  the  destiny  of  Ronsard,  unaccompanied 
by  his  talent,  her  desires  were  fulfilled  to  a  far  greater 
extent  than  she  had  ventured  to  hope.  Chapelain,  "  the 
King  of  Authors"'  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  celebrated 
after  his  death  as  the  model  of  unreadable  poets,  seems, 
like  a  dutiful  son,  to  have  undertaken  the  task  of  accom- 
plishing the  destiny  which  his  mother  had  marked  out 
for  him.  His  studies  were  pursued  with  direct  reference 
to  the  career  for  which  he  was  intended  ;  and  one  of  his 
masters  was  Nicolas  Bourbon,  a  celebrated  Latin  poet  of 
that  time,  who  entertained  so  profound  a  contempt  for 
French  verses  that,  Vvdien  he  read  them,  it  seemed  to  him, 
he  said,  as  if  he  were  drinking  water — which  was,  in 
his  opinion,  the  worst  of  insults."  Being  afterward  in- 
trusted with  the  education  of  the  two  sons  of  the  Mar- 
quis de  la  Trousse,  Chapelain  spent  the  seventeen  years 
through  which  their  education  was  continued  in  the 
study  of  poetics,  or,  at  least,  of  all  that  was  then  known 
on  that  subject.  An  unpleasant  joke  confirmed  him  in 
his  purely  literary  taste.  The  Marquis  de  la  Trousse, 
who  filled  the  office  of  Prévôt  de  Vhôtel,  had  given  him, 
either  before,  or  during  the  time  that  he  was  engaged  in 
the  education  of  his  children,  an  appointment  as  archer 
of  the  provostry.'     This  post  conferred  the  right,  or  rather 

'  "  Comme  roi  des  auteurs  qu'on  l'élève  à  l'empire." 

Boileau,  Satire  ix.,  line  219. 

'  With  all  his  taste  for  good  wine  and  good  cheer,  Nicolas  Bourbon  was 
a  miser  ;  in  addition  to  his  avarice,  he  was  tormented  by  continual  sleep- 
lessness ;  and  from  the  union  of  these  three  dispositions,  resulted  a  singu- 
lar infirmity,  viz.,  that  an  invitation  to  dinner,  given  beforehand,  caused 
him  such  agitation  that  he  was  unable  to  sleep,  so  that  his  friends  were 
careful  to  invite  him  only  on  the  day  of  the  feast. — "  Menagiana,"  vol.  i. 
p.  315. 

'  An  old  manuscript  copy  of  the  "  Chapelain  décoiffe,"  a  well  known 

L 


242  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

the  obligation  of  wearing  a  sword,  and  the  sword  was 
not  at  all  in  harmony  with  Chapelain's  character  ;  for 
men  of  letters,  in  those  days,  did  not  consider  them- 
selves bound  to  possess  courage,  and,  of  all  men  of  let- 
ters, Chapelain  was  the  most  pacific.  One  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, by  way  of  diversion,  proposed  to  him  to  act 
as  second  in  a  duel.  Chapelain  declined  ;  but,  renounc- 
ing thenceforward  an  ornament  which  was  dangerous 
unless  useless,  he  laid  aside  his  sword  and  resigned  his 
office  as  archer,  and  never  resumed  them.  As  he  pos- 
sessed greater  qualifications  for  employments  which  re- 
quired probity  and  capacity  than  for  those  which  called 
for  resolute  firmness  of  soul,  he  was  intrusted  with  the 
administration  of  the  affairs  of  the  Marquis  de  la  Trousse. 
While  he  was  engaged  in  the  education  of  the  young 
Seigneurs  de  la  Trousse,  and  was  seeking  for  poetical 
talent  in  the  study  of  the  rules  of  poetry,  there  arrived  in 
Paris  the  Chevalier  Marini,  with  his  poem  the  "  Adone," 
which  he  intended  to  have  printed,  and  upon  which  he 
was  desirous  of  obtaining  the  opinions  of  the  wits  of 
France.  Chapelain,  though  he  had  as  yet  produced  no- 
thing, was  already  highly  esteemed  by  men  of  letters  for 
his  literary  knowledge.  Those  to  whom  Marini  applied, 
Malherbe  among  the  number,  wished  to  know  his  opin- 

parody  of  a  scene  in  the  "  Cid,"  contains  these  lines  which  are  quoted  iii 
the  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  ii.  pp.  78,  79,  but  which  were  afterward  altered  : 

CHAPEL.'Vm. 

"  Tout  beau  !  j'étois  archer,  la  chose  n'est  pas  feinte  ; 
Mais  j'etois  un  archer  à  la  casaque  peinte  : 
Mon  justc-au-corps  do  pourpre  et  mon  bonnet  fourré 
Sont  encore  les  atours  dont  je  me  suis  paré  ; 
Hoqueton  diapré  de  mon  maître  La  Trousse, 
Je  le  suivois  à  pied  quand  il  marchoit  en  housse. 


Recors  impitoyable  et  recors  éternel, 
Tu  traînois  au  cachot  le  pâle  criminel." 


JKAxN  CHAPELAIN.  243 

in  ;  and  the  Italian  poet,  alarmed  by  his  criticisms, 
requested  him  to  furnish  a  preface  which  might  disarm 
further  attacks  on  the  part  of  the  public.  This  preface, 
in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  M.  Faveréau,  was  printed  at  the 
beginning  of  the  "  Adone,'"  and  is  a  curious  specimen  of 
the  criticism  of  that  period.  Some  few  reasonable  ideas, 
taken,  in  the  form  of  quotations,  from  the  writings  of 
the  ancients,  overwhelmed  by  a  host  of  arbitrary  divi- 
sions and  sub-divisions,  expressed  in  almost  unintelligible 
French,  the  G-aulish  barbarism  of  which  was  highly  sug- 
gestive of  the  style  de  notaire,  were  the  materials  upon 
which  Chapelain's  reputation  was  built.  This  reputa- 
tion, however,  was  sufficient  to  gain  for  him  the  atten- 
tion and  favor  of  Richelieu.  An  ode  to  the  Cardinal 
bore  witness  at  once  to  the  gratitude  of  the  poet  and  to 
his  poetical  talents  ;  and  from  that  time  forth  no  further 
difficulty  was  felt  about  the  choice  of  a  successor  to  Mal- 
herbe.^ 

Since  the  death  of  Chapelain,  this  ode  has  frequently 
been  spoken  of  as  worthy  to  secure  him  an  infinitely  more 
honorable  reputation  than  that  which  he  gained  by  the 
"  Pucelle."  His  panegyrists  never  mention  -it  without 
expressions  of  admiration  ;  and  we  are  assured  that  Boi- 
leau  admitted  that  Chapelain  "had  once  written  a  rather 
fine  ode — ^how  I  can  not  tell,"  he  used  to  add.^  I  am 
quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  opinion  of  Boileau. 
Doubtless  surprised  that  the  author  of  the  "  Pucelle"  could 
have  produced  any  verses  of  average  excellence,  written 

'  In  the  folio  edition  publislicd  at  Paris  in  1623. 

"^  "M.  Chapelain  seemed  to  have  succeeded  to  the  reputation  of  Mal- 
herbe, after  the  death  of  that  author  ;  and  it  was  loudly  published  through- 
out all  France  that  he  was  the  prince  of  French  poets.  This  appears  by 
the  testimonies  of  various  persons  who  observed  what  was  said  during 
the  ministry  of  Cardinals  Richelieu  and  Mazarin."  Baillet,  ''Jugements 
des   Savants,"  vol.  v.  p.  278,  edit.  172?.. 

^  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  73.  -■     i 


244  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

clean-ly  and  correctly,  and  free  from  harshness  or  bad 
taste,  Boileau  rather  exaggerated  the  marvelous  charac- 
ter of  this  prodigy.  Perhaps,  also,  taking  the  ode  on  the 
"  Capture  of  Namur''  into  consideration,  we  may  he  per- 
mitted to  doubt  whether  the  author  of  the  "Art  Poétique" 
had  a  truly  just  and  vivid  feeling  of  that  which  consti- 
tutes the  beauty  of  an  ode.  The  most  scrupulous  atten- 
tion has  not  enabled  me  to  discover,  in  Chapelain's  per- 
formance, the  slightest  trace  of  poetic  fire,  or  even  of  that 
nobility  of  thought  of  which  we  sometimes  oatch  a  glimpse 
through  the  uncouth  style  of  the  "  Pucelle."  Its  progress 
is  cold  and  didactic  ;  the  poet,  confessing  himself  inca- 
pable of  worthily  celebrating  the  praises  of  his  hero,  lim- 
its his  endeavors  to  the  repetition  of  what  is  said  of  him: 

"  Le  long  des  rives  du  Permesse, 
"La  troupe  de  ses  nourrissons,"' 

and  this  frigid  conception  leads  to  the  still  more  frigid 
repetition  of  the  words,  lis  chantent,  with,  which  he  com- 
mences six  strophes  in  succession.  Poetry  is  as  nndis- 
coverable  in  the  imagery  as  in  the  ideas.  Balzac  bestowed 
great  praise  upon  the  lines  in  w^hich,  to  tranquilize  the 
modesty  of  Richelieu,  who  thinks  he  is  indebted  solely 
to  the  King  his  master  for  his  knowledge  and  magnifi- 
cence, the  poet  compares  him  to  the  pole-star,  the  guide 
of  the  pilot  : 

"  Qui  brille  sur  sa  route  et  gouverne  ses  voiles, 
Cependant  que  la  lune,  accomplissant  son  tour 
Dessus  un  char  d'argent  environné  d'étoiles. 
Dans  le  sombre  univers  représente  le  jour.'"* 

The  poet  celebrates  the  "light"  of  the  renown  of  Rich- 

'  The  entire  ode  is  given  in  the  "Recueil  des  plus  belles  pièces  des 
poètes  Français,"  vol.  iv.  p.  181. 
"  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  73. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  245 

elieu,  which,  he  says,  is  "  ever  pure,"  notwithstanding 
the  attempts  of  calumny  to  darken  it  : 

"  Dans  un  paisible  mouvement 
Tu  t'élèves  au  firmament, 
Et  laisses  contre  toi  murmurer  sur  la  terre. 
Ainsi  le  haut  Olympe,  à  son  pied  sablonneux, 
Laisse  fumer  la  foudre  et  gronder  le  tonnerre 
Et  garde  son  sommet  tranquille  et  lumineux." 

As  regards  the  appropriateness  of  his  ideas  and  his 
selection  of  subjects  of  praise,  an  example  is  supplied  by 
this  strophe,  which  is  really  curious  when  we  consider 
that  it  was  addressed  to  Cardinal  Richelieu  : 

"Ton  propre  bonheur  t'importune 

Alors  qu'il  fait  des  malheureux  ; 

On  voit  que  tu  souffres  pour  eux. 

Et  que  leur  peine  t'est  commune. 

Quand  leurs  efforts  sont  impuissans 

Contre  tes  acts  innocens. 
Dans  leur  désastre  encor  ta  bonté  les  révère  ; 
Tu  les  plains  dans  les  maux  dont  ils  sont  affligés. 
Et  demandes  au  ciel,  d'un  cœur  humble  et  sincère, 
Qu'ils  veuillent  seulement  en  être  soulagés." 

"When  flattery  thus  boldly  assumes  the  character  of 
falsehood,  it  becomes  a  conventional  language,  equally 
applicable  to  all  men,  which,  not  allowing  the  poet  the 
choice  of  any  feature  peculiar  to  his  hero,  casts  him 
without  resource  into  the  commonplaces  of  adulation. 
Without  doing  too  much  hon(n-  to  flattery,  it  is  permis- 
sible to  believe  that,  for  it  to  be  clever,  it  must  at  least 
have  some  slight  connection  with  truth. 

I  attach  no  personal  blame,  however,  to  Chapelain  for 
the  singular  eulogies  which  he  has  lavished  on  his  pro- 
tector. Such  was  then  the  general  tone  of  praise,  arising 
rather  from  want  of  taste  and  tact  than  from  any  base- 
ness especially  belonging  to  that  epoch  in  the  life  of 
courts.  A  sort  of  unskillfulness  in  the  treatment  of 
-falsehood,  by  forcing  it  to  appear  in  its  coarsest  guise. 


246  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

also  compelled  truth  to  display  itself  occasionally  under 
harsli  and  peremptory  forms.  Richelieu  himself  had  to 
endure  some  sallies  of  this  inconvenient  candor  ;  and 
even  men  of  letters,  though  bound  to  him  hy  the  ties  of 
necessity  and  gratitude,  rarely  feared  to  maintain  in  pri- 
vate those  opinions  which  they  deemed  reasonable,  in 
opposition  to  that  all-powerful  minister  upon  whom,  in 
public,  they  unhesitatingly  lavished  the  most  absurd 
praises.  In  the  affair  of  the  "  Cid,"  Corneille  and  the 
Academy,  with  Chapelain  at  its  head,  courageously  as- 
serted their  right  of  opinion  against  the  declared  will  of 
the  Cardinal  ;  and,  on  a  less  public  occasion,  the  "  most 
circumspect"  Chapelain,  as  he  was  called  by  Balzac,^ 
whose  temerity  he  had  frequently  censured,*  firmly  main- 
tained his  own  opinion  against  one  of  those  ideas  to 
which  a  man  of  Richelieu's  character  would  be  likely  to 
cling  most  tenaciously.  Being  appointed,  together  with 
several  other  literary  men,  to  amuse  the  Cardinal's  leis- 
ure by  literary  discussions,  Chapelain  had  forwarded  to 
Bois-Robert,  the  usual  intermediary  in  correspondence  of 
this  kind,  a  lengthy  and  very  reasonable  criticism  of  Car- 
dinal Bentivoglio's  "History  of  the  Wars  of  Flanders." 
In  this  letter,  remarkable  for  a  liberality  of  ideas  which 
was  rare  for  his  time,  but  which  would,  perhaps,  have 
been  even  more  bold  and  extraordinary  fifty  years  later, 
Chapelain  insisted  strongly  upon  the  impartiality  which 
a  historian  ought  to  maintain  in  reference  to  the  various 
religious  creeds.  "Vice  and  virtue,"  he  says,  "are  two 
foundations  upon  which  all  are  agreed,  and  which  adndt 
of  no  contradiction.  The  true  religion,  which  ought 
much  rat.her  to  possess  this  privilege,  is  not  so  fortunate; 

'   "  Aicnagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  73. 

^  Sec  the  "  Mélanges  tic  Littérature,  tirés  des  lettres  manuscrites  de  M. 
Chapelain,"  p.  63,  64,  edit.  1720. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  247 

each  man  calls  his  own  the  best  ;  and  you  prove  nothing 
to  an  enemy  of  different  creed  when  you  derive  your 
arc^uments  and  means  of  attack  from  the  falsity  of  that 
which  he  believes.  This  is  why  I  hold  that  the  judicious 
historian,  who  wishes  to  be  of  service  to  the  public,  should 
not  take  his  reasons  from  such  sources,  because  they  are 
sure  not  to  meet  with  general  approbation."  '  He  also 
blamed  Cardinal  Bentivoglio  for  his  partiality  toward  the 
Spaniards,  the  oppressors  of  the  Netherlands.  Richelieu 
expressed  himself  satisfied  with  this  letter,  but  declared 
against  its  author's  opinion  that  "  the  historian  ought  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  judging  the  facts  which  lie  re- 
lates."^ As  firm  on  a  point  of  literary  criticism  as  any 
great  scholar  would  be  on  a  point  of  erudition,  Chapelain 
replied  to  Bois-Robert:  "I  esteem  myself  very  unfortu- 
nate in  not  being  as  completely  of  his  Eminence's  opinion 
on  this  subject,  as  I  am  and  always  wish  to  be  in  all 
things  ;"  and,  after  making  suitable  apologies,  he  declares 
himself  as  positively  for  the  affirmative  as  the  Cardinal 
for  the  negative,  and  develops  his  views  at  considerable 
length,  basing  them  upon  very  sound  reasons.  The  most 
singular  circumstance  in  connection  with  the  matter,  is 
that,  during  the  whole  course  of  the  discussion,  Chapelain 
looks  solely  to  the  interest  which  the  Cardinal  took  in 
the  question  as  a  mere  reader  of  history,  and  never  at 
that  which  he  would  be  likely  to  feel  in  it  as  an  historical 
personage.  Flattery,  which  might  here  have  found  a  fine 
field  for  display,  alludes  only  to  the  angelic  constitution 
of  Monseigneur's  mind,^  which  rendered  useless  to  him 
that  assistance  and  information  with  which  the  weakness 
of  the  vulgar  could  not  dispense.    "Was  this  the  simplicity 

'  See  the  "  Mélanges  de  Littérature,  tirés  des  lettres  manuscrites  de  M. 
Chapelain,"  pp.  101-116. 

«  Ibid.  p.  123,  et  scq.  ■   -  ^  Ibid.  p.  133. 


248  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPOHARIES. 

of  a  man  of  letters,  or  the  address  of  a  consummate  court- 
ier ?  We  are  too  far  distant  both  from  the  man  and  the 
time  to  decide. 

In  the  performance  of  his  duties  as  critic  to  the  Car- 
dinal, in  which  office  he  was  associated  with  several  other 
men  of  letters,  Chapelain,  who  was  really  erudite  and  as 
judicious  as  the  circumspect  frigidity  of  his  imagination 
could  allow,  naturally  proved  superior  to  all  his  colleagues  ; 
and  he  therefore  soon  exceeded  them  in  favor.  It  was 
not,  hovrever,  until  the  administration  of  Colbert,  that  he 
was  intrusted  with  that  special  mission  which  established 
his  sway,  if  not  over  literature,  at  least  over  men  of  let- 
ters ;  but,  under  the  government  of  Richelieu,  the  favor 
which  he  enjoyed  was  sufficiently  great  to  induce  them 
to  attach  considerable  weight  to  his  authority  ;  and,  even 
including  Boileau,  who  complained  of  it  only  as  a  man 
of  taste,  his  dominion  over  the  literary  world  was  gener- 
ally acknowledged. 

In  the  year  1632,  he  had  refused  to  accompany  the 
Duke  de  Noailles  to  Rome,  in  the  capacity  of  secretary 
of  legation.  Thenceforward,  attached  to  the  service  of 
the  Cardinal,*  from  whom  he  received  a  pension  of  a 
thousand  crowns,"  Chapelain  naturally  preferred,  to  the 

'  His  first  letter,  on  Cardinal  Bentivoglio's  book,  is  dated  December  10, 
1631  ;  and  it  is  rather  singular  that  the  second  is  dated  only  on  the  9th  of 
June,  1633.  Probablj'  Bois-Robert,  the  intermediary  through  whom  this 
correspondence  passed,  only  communicated  the  letters  to  the  Cardinal  when 
a  good  opportunity  occurred. 

-  See  the  life  of  Chapelain  in  Lambert.,  "  Histoire  littéraire  du  Siùcle  de 
Louis  XIV.,"  vol.  ii.  p.  361.  The  sum  appears  rather  large.  In  1663, 
Chapelain  was  appointed  by  Colbert  to  draw  up  a  list  of  the  literary  men 
whom  he  deemed  worthy  to  receive  the  benefits  of  the  king,  and  received  a 
pension  of  a  thousand  crowns  from  that  minister.  This  distinction  gave 
rise  to  the  famous  parody  of  "  Chapelain  décoiffé,"  and  was  considered 
very  extraordinary.  (See  the  "Chapelain  décoiffé,"  in  the  "Œuvres  de 
Boileau,"  vol.  iii.  p.  193,  edit.  1772.)  Menage,  speaking  of  the  pension  of 
two  thousand  livres  granted  to  Chapelain  by  the  Duke  de  Longueviilc, 
mentions  it  as  "a  great  pension  ;"  and  PeHsson  ("  Histoire  de  l'Académie," 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  249 

labor  of  a  subordinate  position,  that  kind  of  independence 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  a  literary  man,  specially  consists 
in  liberty  to  dispose  of  his  time  as  he  pleases.  From  this 
leisure,  after  long  and  painful  cflorts,  resulted  the  "  Pu- 
celle."  The  success  of  his  preface  to  the  "  Adone"  had 
convinced  Chapelain  of  the  infallibility  of  his  literary 
knowledge  ;  he  never  suspected  that  the  composition  of 
a  poem  required  something  more  than  a  perfect  acquaint- 
ance with  the  rules  of  poetry,  and  few  persons  were  then- 
to  be  found  who  were  any  wiser  than  himself  on  this 
point.  After  mature  thought,  he  considered  himself 
called  upon,  when  nearly  forty  years  of  age,  to  write  an' 
epic  poem.  He  spent  five  years  in  the  arrangement  of 
its  plan  ;  but  we  have  not  been  informed  how  much  time 
he  devoted  to  the  choice  of  his  subject.  This  choice  was 
certainly  the  happiest  circumstance  of  his  undertaking. 
The  Duke  de  Longueville,  a  descendant  of  Dunois,  the 
bastard  of  Orleans,  thought  too  much  encouragement 
could  not  be  bestowed  upon  a  work  which  would  add,  to 
the  glory  of  his  family,  all  the  renown  that  could  be  de- 
rived from  the  name  and  talents  of  such  a  mail  as  Chape- 
lain  ;  and  a  pension  of  two  thousand  livres,'  to  last  until 
the  composition  of  the  poem  should  be  completed,  con- 
tributed largely  to  the  anticipative  celebrity  of  a  work  so 
well  remunerated. 

The  twenty  years  spent  by  Chapelain  in  the  composi- 

p.  20),  simply  tells  us  that  the  Cardinal  had  manifested  his  esteem  for 
Chapelain,  by  giving  him  a  pension.  Lambert,  a  careless  writer,  may  have 
confounded  the  two  dates. 

'   "  Mena^iana,"  vol.  i.   p.    123.     In  a  remark   upon   the   218th   Hue   of 
Boileau's  9th  Satire  : 

'■  Qu'il  soit  le  mieux  rente  de  tous  les  beaux-esprits,*' 
Brossette,  one  of  the  editors  of  Boileau's  works,  tells  us  that  this  pension 
from  AT.  de  Longueville  amounted  to  four  thousand  livres,  and  that  it  had 
then  been  doubled  ;  which  agrees  with  v\'hat  Menage  snys  about  the  original 
pension.  Lambert  raises  it  to  a  thousand  ci-owns.  like  that  grr.ntcd  by  the 
Cai'dinal. 


250  CORNEILLE 'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

tion  of  the  first  twelve  cantos  of  his  work,  were  twenty 
years  of  unmixed  glory.  The  reputation  of  the  poet  ; 
the  prestige  derived  from  reading  isolated  passages,  a 
sure  means  for  an  author  to  interest  in  his  success  those 
whom  he  appears  to  have  chosen  as  his  judges  ;  the  lively 
curiosity  always  felt  regarding  that  which  is  known  only 
in  part  or  by  hearsay — all  united  to  concentrate  universal 
interest  upon  this  poem,  which,  though  ever  promised 
and  incessantly  shown  in  parts,  seemed  likely  never  to 
be  given  entire.  The  Duchess  de  Longueville  alone, 
carried  away  by  the  general  opinion,  but  enlightened  by 
an  instinct  which  did  not  incline  her  usually  to  coincide 
with  her  husband's  tastes,  said,  in  reference  to  those 
readings,  which  probably  occupied  more  of  her  attention 
than  she  was  willing  to  bestow  upon  them  :  "  The  poem 
is  perfectly  beautiful,  but  it  is  very  tiresome."  ' 

No  great  importance  was  attached  to  this  isolated 
opinion  of  a  lady  devoted  to  interests  very  different  from 
those  of  literature,  and  whoso  taste  might  even  be  regard- 
ed with  suspicion  ;  for  in  the  famous  duel  of  the  sonnets, 
tshe  had  been  almost  alone  in  favor  of  Voiture's  "  Uranie" 
against  Benserade's  "  Job."  For  twenty  years  nothing 
occurred  to  interrupt  the  pleasant  seciirity  of  the  poet,  or 
his  expectation  of  the  brilliant  success  which  he  believed 
himself  destined  to  achieve.  The  desire  to  receive  for  a 
longer  period  the  emoluments  attached  to  his  labor,*  in- 
duced him,  it  is  said,  to  delay  the  enjoyments  of  publica- 
tion and  success  ;  but  even  this  unfavorable  judgment  of 

'  See  the  note  on  these  lines  of  Boileau's  3d  Satire  : 

"  La  Pjicelle  est  encore  une  œuvre  bien  galante, 

Et  je  ne  sais  pourquoi  je  bâille  en  la  lisant." 

"^  "  M.  Chapelain,"  snys  Mâia^c,  "  was  so  long  in  bringing  ont  his  '  Pu- 

cellc'  only  because  he  was  paid  a  largo  ponsioTi  by  M.  dc  Longueville.     He 

feared  that  the  prince  would  no  longer  circ  about  him  after  he  had  publish- 

CÛ  bia  work."    "Mcnagiana,"'  vol.  i.  p  133. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  251 

Chapelain's  probity  allows  the  merit  of  rare  moderation 
to  his  self-love. 

At  length,  he  determined  to  enter  the  lists  which  he 
considered  so  little  to  be  feared.  In  1656,  the  first  twelve 
cantos  of  the  "  Pucelle"  were  published.  Issuing  at  length . 
from  that  limited  circle  which  was  formed  around  it  by 
the  literate  few,  and  from  which  isolated  rays  of  its  glory 
had  alone  hitherto  proceeded,  it  sought  the  suffrages  of 
the  general  public.  All  might  now  judge  what  a  few 
had  pronounced  worthy  of  unraingled  admiration;  and 
probably  gaining  encouragement  from  the  presence  of  the 
public,  men  of  letters  ventured  for  the  first  time  to  ex- 
press an  opinion  which  they  had  been  afraid  to  pronounce 
so  long  as  they  were  the  only  persons  to  support  it.'  Thff 
promptitude  of  the  attack  justifies  the  presumption  that 
it  was  premeditated.  "  Three  days  after  this  so  much 
extolled  poem  had  been  made  public,"  says  Vigneul-Mar- 
ville,  "  a  criticism  of  very  small  merit'^  having  given  it 
the  first  scratch,  every  one  fell  upon  it,  and  the  whole 
reputation  of  both  the  poem  and  the  poet  fell  to  the  ground 
— a  fall,"  adds  Yigneul-Marville,  "  the  greatest  and  most 
deplorable  that  has  ever  occurred,  in  the  memory  of  man, 
from  the  top  of  Parnassus  to  the  bottom."  ' 

The  event,  however,  was  iiot  quite  so  dramatic  as  it  is 
represented  to  have  been  by  the  imaginative  author  of 

'  He  nevertheless  had  fervent  admirers  among  the  literary  class.  Sar- 
rasin and  Maynard  had  eulogized  him  in  their  poems  ;  an<i  Godeau,  the 
bishop  of  Vence,  said  to  a  man  who  was  urging  him  to  ivrite  an  epic,  that 
his  voice  was  not  strong  enough  to  do  so,  "  and  that  the  bishop,  on  this' 
occasion,  yielded  the  supremacy  to  Chapelain"  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  i.  p. 
31. 

'^  I  have  been  unable  to  discover  this  criticism,  the  obscurity  of  which  is 
sufficiently  evident  from  what  Vigneul-Marville  says  of  it.  Segrais  asserts 
that  Despréaux  was  the  first  who  shook  off  the  yoke  by  his  "  Chapelain  dé- 
coiffé ;"  but  this  poem  is  dated  in  1664,  and  Chapelain  had  not  to  wait  ao 
Icwig  for  epigrams. 

^  VigTieui-Mannile,  "  Mélanges,"  vol.  ii.  p.  .5  '  ■ 


252  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

the  "Mélanges."  The  sale  of  six  editions  of  these  first 
twelve  cantos  in  eighteen  months,  proved  that  consider- 
able time  was  required  for  the  demolition  of  a  reputation 
which  had  been  so  long  accumulating.  But  all  parties 
united  in  the  attack  ;  entire  collections  of  epigrams'  were 
published  against  the  "Pucelle,"  and  it  became  the  usual  : 
butt  for  conversational  witticisms.  It  was  said  that  the 
"Pucelle,"  as  long  as  she  was  kept  by  a  great  prince, 
had  retained  a  sort  of  reputation,  but  that  she  had  en- 
tirely lost  it  since  she  had  become  public  property.*  The 
respect  attached  to  the  name  of  Chapelain  disappeared, 
at  least,  among  men  of  letters;  and  Furetière  remarking 
him  by  the  side  of  Patru,  said  :  "  Voilà  un  auteur  pauvre 
et  un  pauvre  auteur. ^^  ^ 

Chapelain's  friends  did  not  desert  him  in  these  trying 
circumstances.  They  felt  it  incumbent  upon  them  to 
maintain  the  honor  of  their  approbation,  and  the  Duke 
de  LongueviUe  was  especially  earnest  in  the  work.  He 
doubled  the  pension  which  he  had  bestowed  on  Chape- 
lain  ;  and  the  avarice  ascribed  to  the  poet  gives  us  rea- 
son to  believe  that  so  valuable  a  mark  of  esteem  must 
have  consoled  him  for  many  criticisms.  Others  supported 
him  with  their  pens  and  voices  ;  but,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, the  vigor  of  their  defense  was  greatly  modified  by 
the  astonishment  into  which  they  had  been  tlirown  by  so 
unexpected  a  failure.  Huet,  the  bishop  of  Avranches, 
the  most  intrepid  of  them  all,  merely  asked  that  before 
judgment  was  pronounced,  time  should  be  allowed  for 
the  publication  of  the  entire  poem  ;    and  he  therefore 

'  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  i.  p.  125. 

'  Ibid.  vol.  i.  p.  123.     This  saying  was  thus  versified: 

"  Depuis  qu'elle  paroît  et  se  fait  voir  au  jour, 
Que  chacun  la  prise  à  son  tour, 
La  Pucclle  n'est  plus  qu'une  fille  publique." 
•  "  Menugiana,"  vol,  i.  p.  129. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  253 

thought  that  the  poet  had  done  wrong  to  publish  separ- 
ately the  first  part,  which  was  so  ill  calculated  to  insure 
a  favorable  reception  for  the  remainder.  Saint-Pavin  de- 
clared that  the  "  Pucelle"  contained  faults  of  so  much 
beauty  that  its  enemies  would  have  been  proud  to  com- 
mit them  ;   but,  at  the  same  time,  he  wrote  this  sonnet  : 

"Je  vous  dirai  sincèrement 
Mon  sentiment  sur  la  Pucelle  ; 
L'air  et  la  grâce  naturelle 
S'y  rencontrent  également. 

Elle  s'explique  fortement, 
Ne  dit  jamais  de  bagatelle, 
Et  toute  sa  conduite  est  telle 
Qu'il  faut  la  louer  hautement. 

Elle  est  pompeuse,  elle  est  parée  ; 
Sa  beauté  sera  de  durée  ; 
Son  éclat  peut  nous  éblouir  ; 

Mais  enfin,  quoiqu'elle  soit  telle, 
Rarement  on  ira  cliez  elle 
Quand  on  voudra  se  réjouir."' 

This   is  a  mere  paraphrase  of  that  saying  of  Mme.  de 

Longueville  which  has  been  already  quoted.    Segrais,  who, 

though  but  slightly  disposed  in  Chapelain's  favor,  was 

sufficiently  addicted  to  admiration  to  discover  inimitable 

passages  in  the  "  Pucelle,"  nevertheless  confessed  that  it 

was  not  a  good  heroic  poem.     "But,"  he  added,  "have, 

we  any  better  ?     Does  any  one  read  the  '  Clovis,'  ^  or  the 

'Saint-Louis,"  or  others  of  the  same  kind?"*     No  one 

dared  to  defend  its  style,  and  Chapelain  himself  confessed 

that  he  was  not  a  good  hand  at  writing  verses  ;  '  but  he 

made  this  confession  haughtily,  considering  so  small  a 

merit  quite  unworthy  of  his  attention  and  of  the  notice 

of  his  judges.     "  As  to  versification  and  language,"  he 

'  "  Recueil  des  phis  belles  pieces  des  Poètes  Français,"  vol.  iv.  p.  176,  and 
vol.  V.  p.  152. 
*  By  Saint-Amant.         ^  By  Pcrc  Lemoine.         *  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  6. 
"  Vigntvi-Mar-ôille^  "  Molanrje's,"  vol.  ii-.  p.  5. 


254'  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

says  in  his  preface  to  his  last  twelve  cantos,'  "  they  are 
instruments  of  so  little  importance  in  the  epic,  that  they 
do  not  merit  the  consideration  of  such  great  judges;  they 
are  abandoned  to  the  fury  of  the  grammarian  tribe,  with- 
out gaining  greater  or  less  esteem  by  the  approbation 
which  they  may  receive  from  it,  or  by  the  hard  blows 
which  it  may  give  them."  He  then  goes  on  to  declare 
that,  "strictly  considered,  the  poem  would  not  be  less  a 
poem  if  it  were  not  written  in  verse  ;"  which  seems  to 
imply  that  it  is  -none  the  worse  for  being  written  in  bad 
verse. 

Chapelain,  influenced  by  the  first  emotions  of  pater- 
nity, was  desirous,  it  is  said,^  to  rush  to  the  assistance 
of  his  offspring  when  thus  violently  attacked,  and  at  all 
events  to  protect,  by  his  talent  as  a  critic,  a  work  which 
his  talent  as  a  poet  had  failed  to  render  capable  of  defend- 
ing itself.  Second  thoughts  probably  made  him  sensible 
that  such  aid  would  most  likely  be  more  dangerous  than 
useful  ;  so  he  satisfied  himself  with  laboring  in  silence 
at  the  continuation  of  his  work,  and  reserved  all  his 
animadversions  for  that  preface  which  I  have  already 
quoted,  and  in  which — with  the  dignity  of  persecuted 
genius,  challenging  alike  his  friends  and  his  enemies — 
he  declares  "  that  he  takes  nothing  less  than  the  uni- 
verse for  his  stage,  and  eternity  for  his  spectatress." 

Chapelain's  eternity  was  of  short  duration,  and  the 
universe  has  not  cared  to  liberate  the  last  productions  of 
his  genius  from  the  obscurity  in  \yhich  he  himself  allow- 
ed them  to  languish.  Neither  the  last  twelve  books  of 
the  "Pucelle,"  nor  their  haughty  preface,  have  ever  been 
printed.     Scarcely  any  one  has  even  inquired  about  their 

'  I  have  rcrid  this  sccoiul  part,  which  has  never  been  printed,  and  which 
together  with  the  Prefaee,  exists  in  MS.  in  the  National  Library  at  Paria. 
^  Vigncul-Marvilk,  "  Molang'da,''  vol.  ii.  p.  5. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  255 

existence  ;  and  within  a  few  months,  this  unfortunate 
work  verified  the  horoscope  drawn  of  it  by  Linière  a  few 
days  before  its  appearance  : 

"  Nous  attendons  de  Chapelain, 
Ce  noble  et  fameux  écrivain, 
Une  incomparable  Pucellc. 
Ija  cabale  en  dit  force  bien  : 
Depuis  vingt  ans  on  parle  d'elle  ; 
Dans  six  mois  on  n'ea  dira  rien.'" 

Few  persons  have  felt  suificient  interest  in  this  lit- 
erary event,  which  has  left  so  few  traces  of  its  existence, 
to  look  to  the  work  itself  for  the  explanation  of  the 
double  phenomenon  of  its  astonishing  reputation  and  its 
fearful  fall  ;  and  if  any  persons  have  had  the  courage  to 
attempt  this  examination,  they  have  derived  little  pleas- 
ure from  it.  All  popular  favor  is  a  fashion,  and  the 
empire  of  any  particular  fashion  is  as  difficult  of  explana- 
tion as  the  wind,  which  blows  in  one  direction  to-day, 
but  will  change  to-morrow.  Perhaps,  however,  curious 
minds  may  take  pleasure  in  learning  from  Chapelain's 
work  the  limit  of  the  taste  of  a' reasonable,  erudite,  and 
judicious  man  (for  such  was  the  author  of  the  "  Pucelle"), 
when  the  way  has  not  been  opened  to  him  by  the  taste 
of  his  contemporaries  ;  and  when  he  does  not  possess,  in 
order  to  precede  his  age,  that  inspiration  which  rises  to 
truth  by  roads  whose  existence  was  not  even  suspected 
by  the  vulgar,  until  genius  had  revealed  them  to  their 
eyes.  We  may  learn  from  the  "  Pucelle,"  how  necessary 
imagination  is  even  to  reason,  when  reason  attempts  to 
transgi'ess  the  bounds  of  simple  common  sense  ;  and  how 
indispensable  it  is  to  see  far  and  quickly,  in  order  to  see 
always  clearly  and  justly. 

Charles  YIL,  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  Dunois,  Agnes 
Sore],  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  Bedford  are  the  princi- 

'  "  Menagiana,"  vol.  i.  p.  124. 


256  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

pal  personages  of  Chapelain's  poem.  Gfod  and  the  angels, 
whom  he  employs  to  msure  success  for  the  projects  of 
the  Maid,  and  frustrate  the  devil  and  his  artifices  in  favor 
of  the  English — are  the  principal  springs  of  the  action. 
Charles  VII.  is  certainly  the  least  epic  and  least  dramatic 
character  that  it  w^ould  be  possible  to  imagine.  Ever 
boasting  of  his  warlike  ardor,  but  never  fighting  ;  get- 
ting angry  with  those  who  oppose  his  will,  but  never 
having  a  will  of  his  own;  sometimes  the  very  humble 
servant  of  the  Maid,  who  leads  him  like  a  child;  some- 
times the  dupe  of  his  favorite,  the  unworthy  Amaury, 
who  cheats  him  like  a  fool  ;  in  love  with  Agnes  when  he 
sees  her,  and  forgetting  her  as  soon  as  she  is  out  of  his 
sight, — he  incessantly  changes  his  feelings  and  resolu- 
tions, and  passes  from  weakness  to  vigor,  or  from  wrath 
to  su.bmission  :  so  that  nothing  in  his  character  excites 
the  slightest  curiosity  in  reference  to  the  consequences  of 
a  position  which  a  new  display  of  weakness  will  change 
as  soon  as  it  becomes  too  difficult  to  treat.  The  Maid, 
always  impassible  and  always  inspired,  sustains  tolerably 
well  the  character  ascribed  to  her;  bat  this  character  is 
a  perpetual  miracle  :  all  her  prayers  are  heard,  and  every 
one  of  her  words  is  a  decree  from  heaven,  which  over- 
throws all  obstacles  and  dissipates  all  resistance.  Sent 
by  God,  at  the  beginning  of  the  poem,  to  the  assistance 
of  Orleans,  which  is  already  reduced  to  the  last  extremi- 
ties, she  leaves  her  native  woods,  arrives  at  the  camp  of 
the  king,  is  listened  to  with  respect,  finds  the  army  at 
her  orders,  and  the  court  at  her  feet  ;  and  all  this  is 
efTected  by  the  utterance  of  a  few  words.  Orleans  is 
delivered.  The  heroine  files  from  combat  to  combat,  and 
always  at  a  given  point  an  angel  comes  down  to  decide 
in  her  favor  a  victory  which  the  ever-defeated  demon  un-, 
ceasingly  attempts  to  gain  over  her..   Amaury,  a  true 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  257 

ierrestrial  demon,  enraged  at  the  influence  which  the 
Maid  has  obtained,  and  fearful  for  tlio  loss  of  his  own, 
determines  to  recall,  as  an  opponent  to  his  formidable 
enemy,  Agnes  Sorely  whom  the  same  jealousy  of  power 
had  induced  him  to  remove  by  his  intrigues.  On  the  in- 
vitation of  Amaury,  Agnes  returns;  a  look  will  restore 
to  her  her  empire  over  the  feeble  Charles  ;  but  the  Maid 
appears  and  utters  a  few  stern  words  against  Agnes  ; 
upon  which  Charles  casts  down  his  eyes  and  turns  away 
his  head,  and  Agnes  departs  in  indignation.  When  her 
first  victories  have  opened  the  road  to  Rheims,  the  Maid 
desires  to  conduct  the  king  thither  to  be  consecrated. 
The  demon,  .ever  on  the  watch,  endeavors  to  disturb  this 
triumphal  march  by  inspiring  "  the  soldiers  with  libid- 
inous thoughts  for  shameless  girls  ;"  but  the  Maid  no 
sooner  becomes  aware  of  this  than,  passing  from  rank  to 
rank,  she — 

"  Ecarte  d'un  clin-d'œil  ces  criminels  objets  ;" 

and  twenty-two  lines  contain  the  entire  narrative  of  this 
incident,  the  arrangement  of  which  had  exhausted  all  the 
genius  and  malice  of  the  devil.  With  equal  facility  re- 
volts are  overcome,  and  the  envious  confounded.  No 
where  does  this  marvelous  girl  find  neither  passions  to 
repress  nor  obstinacy  to  conquer  ;  and  the  passions  which 
she  inspires  give  her  no  more  trouble  than  those  which 
rise  in  opposition  against  her.  God,  who  here  per- 
forms a  part  similar  to.that  of  Venus  in  the  "^neid," 
ordains  that,  in  order  better  to  help  his  favorite,  all  the 
leaders  of  Charles's  army  should  fail  in  love  with  her — 
an  idea  all  the  more  unfortunate  as  it  exercises  no  influ- 
ence whatever  over  the  progress  of  the  poem.  Of  all 
these  amours,  the  only  one  which  the  poet  has  invested 
with  any  importance  is  that  of  Dunois  ;  but  his  repectful 


25S  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

and  reserved  affection  very  properly  ^^  poco  spera,  nulla 
chiede^''^  '  and  perhaps  even  does  not  desire  much  ;  so 
that,  forgotten  ahnost  as  soon  as  it  arose,  it  produces  no 
other  eifect  than  to  cause  deep  affliction  to  poor  Marie,  a 
rather  interesting  personage,  but  whose  resignation  and 
reserve  can  not  heat  the  chilly  atmosphere  by  which  she 
is  surrounded.  The  ambitions  and  coquettish  Agnes, 
casting  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
whom  she  detests,  in  revenge  for  the  indifference  of 
Charles,  whom  she  loves  ;  and  the'  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
divided  between  his  love  for  Agnes,  his  hatred  of  Charles, 
and  his  indignation  against  his  humiliation  by  English 
tyranny — would  seem  to  promise  some  agitation,  some 
strife  of  passion  :  but  these  conflicts  are  of  such  short 
duration,  and  the  resolutions  which  terminate  them  are 
so  soon  taken,  that  the  imagination  of  the  reader  finds 
nothing  in  them  to  rest  upon,  and  to  break  the  series 
of  battles,  marches,  and  counter-marches,  all  producing 
similar  results^  and  all  related  in  the  same  tone,  which, 
with  the  incidents  already  mentioned,  fill  up  the  first 
twelve  books  of  the  poem.  At  the  end  of  the  twelfth 
book,  Dunois,  who  at  the  assault  of  Paris  has  leaped  over 
thé  ramparts  without  being  followed  by  his  men,  is  taken 
prisoner  by  the  English.  At  the  same  moment  the  demon 
turns  against  Amaury  the  arrow  which  the  Maid  had  just 
shot  against  the  enemy.  Amaury  dies  of  the  wound  ; 
and,  after  an  inspection  of  the  arrow,  Charles,  convinced 
that  the  Maid  has  killed  his  favorite,  bursts  into  violent 
anger  and  pronounces  sentence  of  banishment  against 
her,  which  terminates  her  mission,  and  deprives  her  of 
her  powers,  which  she  may  no  longer  employ  in  the  serv- 
ice of  a  prince  abandoned  by  God.     Grieved,  but  resign- 

'  "  Hopes  little,  asks  nothing."     Tasso,  "  Gemsalcmmc  Liberata,"  Canto 
ii.  «lanza  15. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  259 

ed,  she  retires  to  the  woods  of  Compiègne,  but  is  soon 
forced,  by  the  approach  of  the  English,  to  take  refuge  in 
the  town.  The  English  then  lay  siege  to  Compiègne^ 
Constrained  by  the  prayers  of  the  inhabitants,  who  re- 
proach her  with  deserting  them,  after  having  attracted 
the  English  forces  into  their  neighborhood,  the  Maid  re- 
sumes her  arms,  notwithstanding  her  repugnance  to  do 
so,  and  attempts  a  sortie,  in  which,  though  unsupported 
from  on  high,  the  recollection  of  her  former  prowess  main- 
tains her  advantage  for  some  time  ;  but  at  length  the  arti- 
fices of  the  demon  induce  those  whom  she  is  defending  to 
abandon  her,  that  they  may  save  themselves  ;  and  she  is 
made  prisoner  and  taken  to  Rouen.  At  this  point  Chape- 
lain  halts,  for  the  first  time,  in  his  laborious  career. 

The  twelve  cantos  which  follow,  and  which  I  have  read 
in  the  manuscript,  seem  to  indicate  the  fatigue  occasioned 
by  the  violent  efforts  which  presided  over  the  production 
of  the  first  part.  The  action,  by  being  less  closely  com- 
pacted together,  and  less  crowded  with  events,  though 
not  more  rich  in  development,  gives  breathing-time,  and 
even  sleeping-time,  to  the  characters,  whom  the  first  part 
of  the  poem  kept  constantly  on  the  alert.  The  Maid  re- 
mains quietly  confined  in  her  prison,  and  nothing  is  said 
about  her.  Dunois  is  even  more  fortunate  in  his  dun- 
geon, where  ]},Iarie  has  taken  him  under  her  care,  and — 

"De  son  long  étendu  sur  de  mollets  coussins, 
N'est  ni  vu  ni  servi  que  de  ses  médecins." 

and  by  Marie,  "his  physician  as  well  as  his  lover." 
When  his  cure  is  etfectcd,  he  is  exchanged  by  the  inter- 
vention of  Bedford,  who  seeks  to  separate  him  from  Marie, 
as  he  desires  that  she  should  marry  his  son  Edward. 
The  French  hero  now  passes  an  idle  life  in  a  camp  where 
there  is  no  more  fighting  to  be  done,  and  which  Agnes, 


260  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

who  again  appears  as  the  principal  personage  at  Court, 
as  well  as  of  the  poem,  has  rendered  a  scene  of  love  and 
amusement.  Upon  a  new-comer  devolves  almost  exclu- 
sively the  task  of  giving  movement  to  the  action.  This 
is  Edward,  the  son  of  Bedford,  just  arrived  from  London. 
By  a  singular  coincidence,  Edward  has  exactly  the  same 
features  and  appearance  as  Rodolphe,  the  brother  of  the 
Maid,  and  her  fellow-prisoner.  Pretending  that  this  young 
warrior  has  been  miraculously  delivered  from  prison,  he 
presents  himself  to  Charles  under  his  name,  and  succeeds 
in  obtaining  the  confidence  of  the  king,  whom  he  rules, 
as  others  have  done,  by  making  use  of  Agnes  Sorel.  He 
deceives  Charles,  betrays  him,  thwarts  all  his  plans,  and 
finally  attempts  to  poison  him.  For  this  purpose  he  pre- 
pares an  apple  of  monstrous  size,  of  the  same  kind  as  those  : 

"  Qu'en  langage  fruitier  callcville  on  appelle." 

The  King  thinks  it  so  beautiful  that  he  desires  Agnes  to 
eat  it — 

"Et  de  sucre  en  poussière  un  nuage  y  répand." 

Both  sugar  and  apple  are  poisoned  ;  so  Agnes  dies.  The 
king  at  first  wished  to  die  with  her,  but  suddenly  took 
consolation,  according  to  his  custom,  being  infiaenced  by 
the  advice  of  an  angel,  who  even  induced  him  to  do  pen- 
ance for  his  amour.  The  demon,  on  his  side,  has  at  last 
succeeded  in  persuading  the  English  to  put  the  Maid  to 
death,  instead  of  adopting  the  opinion  of  Bedford,  who 
wished  to  keep  her  as  a  hostage  for  the  safety  of  his  son. 
She,  whose  whole  joy  consists  in  the  hope  of  martyrdom, 
guesses  that  the  fatal  moment  is  drawing  near — 

"  Et  conçoit  de  sa  mort  un  aimable  soupçon." 
Her  trial  occupies  thirty  lines,  and  her  death,  which  is 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  261 

narrated  with  a  little  more  detail,  is  as  glorious  as  her 
life.  Meanwhile  the  true  Rodolphe  really  escapes  from 
prison,  comes  to  the  Court  of  Charles  to  reclaim  his  name, 
and  challenges,  and  kills  the  traitor  Edward  in  a  duel. 
Dunois  defeats  and  drives  out  the  English  : 

"  Et  le  combat  finit  faute  de  combattans." 

I  pass  over  many  incidents  mentioned  in  the  second 
part  of  the  poem,  such  as  the  enumeration  of  the  fleet 
brought  from  England  by  the  brave  Talbot  ;  the  long 
account  of  the  naval  victory  gained  by  the  English  over 
the  French,  who  endeavor  to  oppose  their  disembarkation  ; 
the  arrival  in  Paris  of  Henry,  the  young  king  of  England  ; 
his  coronation  and  duel  with  Charles,  which  is  interrupt- 
ed by  the  traitorous  interference  of  the  English,  when 
they  behold  their  king  about  to  fall  ;  the  escape  of  the 
princess  Marie  whom  Bedford  wishes  to  force  to  marry 
his  son  ;  and  so  forth.  Nor  shall  I  linger  to  explain  the 
allegorical  meaning  which  Chapelain  claims  to  have  given 
to  his  poem,  "  according  to  the  precepts."  '  It  is  of  little 
consequence  to  the  opinion  which  may  be  formed  of  the 
talent  of  the  poet  that,  in  his  work,  France  is  supposed 
to  represent  "the  soul  of  man,  Charles  the  will,  Agnes 
concupiscence,  Dunois  virtue,  Joan  of  Arc  divine  grace," 
and  so  on.  Chapelain  had  too  much  good  sense  for  us 
to  suppose,  whatever  he  may  say  about  it,  that  these 
fine  allegories  were  really  the  object  of  his  work,  and  he 
had  more  than  enough  wit  to  discover  them  afterward  ; 
they  consequently  exert  no  influence  whatever  upon  the 
progress  of  the  poem  ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
romanesque  springs  of  action,  the  general  plan  is  reason- 

'  He  praises  himself,  in  his  Preface,  for  the  care  he  has  taken  "  to  reduce 
his  action  to  the  universal,  according  to  the  precepts,  and  not  to  deprive  it 
of  allegorical  meaning,  by  which  poetry  is  made  one  of  the  chief  instruments 
of  architectonics."     See  the  Preface  to  the  first  part  of  his  poem. 


262  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

able  enough.  The  sentiments  scattered  through  the  work 
would  appear  sufficiently  natural  if,  through  not  giving 
them  enough  development,  the  poet  did  not  constantly 
manifest  them  as  far  too  weak  to  occasion  the  results 
which  they  effect.  We  might  praise  the  unity  of  subject, 
which  Chapelain  has  scrupulously  observed,  if  he  had 
added  to  it  simplicity  of  action  :  but  incapable,  on  account 
of  the  barrenness  of  his  imagination,  of  deriving  from 
the  incidents  which  he  brings  on  the  stage,  all  the  means 
of  interest  and  effect  with  which  they  might  be  made  to 
furnish  him,  he  is  obliged  to  multiply  both  means  and 
incidents  ;  and,  as  he  is  equally  incapable  of  giving  them 
variety,  he  incessantly  repeats  the  same  ideas  and  the 
same  details,  and  thus  falls  into  confusion  without  avoid- 
ing monotony. 

It  is  in  details  especially  that  we  discern  how  deficient 
the  reason  and  taste  of  Chapelain  were  in  imagination. 
There  are  two  kinds  of  truths  ;  one,  by  which  the  poet 
ought  to  be  sufficiently  struck  to  select  and  render  it; 
the  other,  with  which  he  ought  to  be  sufficiently  ac- 
quainted to  take  care  to  avoid  it.  Both  kinds  may  some- 
times happen  to  unite  in  the  same  objects  :  thus  Racine, 
describing  the  ruin  and  desolation  of  Jerusalem,  says  : 

"  Et  de  Jérusalem  l'herbe  cache  les  murs  ; 
Sion,  repaire  affreux  de  reptiles  impurs, 
Voit  de  son  temple  saint  les  pierres  dispersées."  ' 

Saint-Amant,  on  the  other  hand,  gives  the  following  rep- 
resentation of  a  building  in  ruins  : 

"  Le  plancher  du  lieu  le  plus  haut 
Est  tombé  jusque  dans  la  cave, 
Que  la  limace  et  le  crapaud 
Souillent  de  venin  et  de  bave."^ 


'  Racine,  "  Esther,"  act  i.  scene  4. 

'  "Recueil  des  plus  belles  pircos  des  Poëte.s  Français,"  vol.  ill.  p.  289. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  263 

In  both  descriptions  the  objects  are  the  same  ;  the  only 
difference  is  in  the  circumstances  chosen  by  the  two 
poets.  Chapelain  will  not,  like  Saint-Amant,  select  a 
disagreeable  or  ridiculous  truth  in  order  to  present  it 
under  a  striking  form  ;  but  his  perception  of  it  will  not 
be  sufficiently  clear  to  enable  him  to  avoid  it.  He  will 
not  perceive,  in  his  own  inventions,  all  that  other  persons 
may  discover  in  them;  and  even  the  models  which  he 
imitates  will  not  enlighten  him.  When  Tasso  represents 
the  angel  Gabriel  preparing  to  appear  before  the  eyes  of 
Godfrey  de  Bouillon,  he  thus  describes  the  operation  by 
which  the  celestial  spirit  rendered  himself  visible  to 
earthly  eyes: 

"  La  sua  forma  invisibil  d'aria  cinse 
Ed  al  senso  mortal  la  sottopose  ; 
Ilmane  membra,  aspetto  uman  si  finse  ; 
Ma  di  celeste  maesta  il  compose, 
Tra  giovane  e  fanciullo  età  confine 
Prese,  ed  orno  di  raggi  il  biondo  crine."  ' 

The  same  idea  is  thus  treated  by  Chapelain.  The 
Archangel  Michael  resolves  to  appear  to  Charles  in  the 
form  of  weeping  France  ;  he  descends  from  heaven,  and — 

"  De  la  plus  haute  sphère  aux  plages  les  plus  basses 
Vient  fixer  l'air  mobile,  en  assembler  des  masses, 
Les  mêler,  les  unir  et  s'en  former  un  corps 
Vuide  par  le  dedans,  et  solide  au  dehors. 
De  la  France  abattue  il  lui  donne  l'image. 
Il  lui  donne  son  air,  lui  donne  son  corsage, 
Et  dans  son  cave  sein  luy-même  s'enfermant, 
A  ses  membres  divers  donne  le  mouvement.'"* 


^  Fairfax's  translation  is  as  follows  : 

"  In  form  of  airy  members  fair  embar'd, 

His  spirits  pure  were  subject  to  our  sight  ; 
Like  to  a  man  in  show  and  shape  he  far'd, 
But  full  of  heav'nly  majesty  and  might, 
A  stripling  seem'd  he  thrice  five  winters  old. 
And  radiant  beams  adorn'd  his  locks  of  gold." 
*  Chapelain,  "  La  Pucelle,"  Canto  vi.  p.  190. 


264  CORNEILLE'S  CONT'EMPORAEIES. 

If  we  consider  only  the  effect  of  these  two  pictures, 
who  could  believe  that  one  was  an  imitation  of  the  other? 
Remark  with  what  care  and  delicacy  the  Italian  poet  has 
retained,  in  his  description,  the  vagueness  necessary  to 
a  sketch  which  could  not  become  too  palpable  without 
being  altogether  false.  Is  it  the  angel  himself,  or  simply 
the  form  which  he  has  assumed,  which  is  about  to  be- 
come visible  to  us  ?  Tasso  does  not  tell  us  ;  this  appear- 
ance does  not  belong  to  the  angel,  and  yet  it  is  not  dis- 
tinct from  himself  ;  insensibly  our  imagination  confounds 
the  one  with  the  other,  and  soon  it  will  be  not  merely  the 
figure,  but  the  angel  himself  who  will  appear  to  us,  and 
whose  delicate  features  and  floating  locks  we  shall  plainly 
recognize.  Nothing  of  this  would  be  positive  enough  for 
Chapelain  ;  he  requires  something  more  sensible  and  de- 
terminate; and,  therefore,  separating  very  distinctly  what 
"Tasso  has  taken  care  to  commingle,  he  makes  his  figure 
of  France  a  large  doll  inside  which  the  angel  conceals 
himself,  just  as  in  an  operatic  transformation,  and  which 
he  will  put  in  motion  with  almost  as  much  grace  and 
naturalness  as  Punch  displays  under  the  influence  of  the 
strings  held  by  his  hidden  director.  That  imagination 
must  indeed  be  very  insensible  to  truth  and  very  inac- 
cessible to  ridicule,  which  is  not  at  once  struck  with  the 
falsity  and  absurdity  of  this  image. 

Chapelain  is  equally  unaware  of  the  impropriety  of 
certain  clevernesses  by  which  he  attempts  to  disguise  too 
palpable  truths.  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden,  displeased 
at  his  having  censured,  as  too  free,  some  lines  which  she 
had  considered  pretty,  exclaimed  :  "  Your  M.  Chapelain 
is  a  poor  fellow  ;  he  would  wish  every  thing  to  be  maid- 
en." '  It  is  singular  enough  that  he  carried  out  this  fancy 
even  in  reference  to  Agnes  Sorel  ;  but  far  more  singular 

'  "  Mcnagiana,"  vol.  i.  p.  140. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  265 

are  the  means  by  which  the  poet  has  attempted  to  dispel 
all  the  injurious  thoughts  that  the  reader  might  entertain 
with  regard  to  the  liaisons  of  Agnes  with  Charles  VII. 
and  the  Duke  of  Burgundy.  When  recalled  by  Amaury, 
she  presents  herself  to  Charles  with  the  sole  purpose  of 
offering  him  "her  arm  and  her  courage;"  and  when 
Amaury  afterward  finds  fault  with  the  maid  for  having 
procured  the  dismissal  of  Agnes,  he  alleges  as  the  ground 
of  his  complaint  that  she  might  have  assisted  the  king 
"  with  her  arms."  When  Agnes  betakes  herself  to  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  she  tells  him  : 

"  Mon  bras  vient  contre  tous  embrasser  la  querelle, 
Vient  combattre  Bedford,  Charles  et  la  Pucelle." 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  no  explanation  whatever  is  given 
of  the  grounds  for  the  confidence  reposed  "  in  the  arm  of 
Agnes,"  and  in  the  force  of  "her  arms  ;"  all  her  military 
preparations,  when  she  is  about  to  rejoin  King  Charles, 
consist  in  looking  at  herself  in  the  mirrors  which  adorn 
her  gilded  chamber  : 

"  A  voir  hors  des  deux  bouts  de  ses  deux  courtes  manches. 
Sortir  à  découvert  deux  mains  longues  et  blanches 
Dont  les  doigts  inégaux,  mais  tout  ronds  et  menus,  ■       .   * 

Imitent  l'embonpoint  des  bras  ronds  et  charnus. 

A  remarquer  surtout  l'inimitable  grâce 

Qui,  dans  ce  bel  amas,  les  beaux  rayons  semant, 

En  rend  beau  l'assemblage  et  le  lustre  charmant." 

Moreover,  when  Agnes  meets  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
who  wishes  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  she  "  clasps 
him  in  both  her  arms,"  assures  him  of  her  "  true  love," 
makes  him  sit  down  by  her  side,  and  takes  up  her  resi- 
dence with  him  sans  façon  in  his  "solitary  palace"  of 
Fontainebleau  ;  and  the  author,  who  tells  us  nothing 
more,  imagines  that  he  has  thus  saved  the  modesty,  if 

M 


266  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

not  the  virtue,  of  Agnes  ;  for  the  king,  when  she  returns 
tp  him,  does  not  manifest  the  slightest  displeasure  at  the 
levity  of  her  conduct. 

Bad  taste  is  the  necessary  result  of  this  facility  for 
dispensing  with  truth  :  and  the  author  will  not  hesitate 
to  carry  hyperbole  to  that  point  at  which,  though  given 
as  the  real  image  of  an  object,  it  becomes  its  falsest  rep- 
resentation. Thus,  on  her  arrival  at  the  palace  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy,  when- — 

" Déjà  l'ombre  vaine  occupe  l'hémisphère, 

Agnès  lance  partout  des  rayons  et  des  feux, 

Et  son  corps  parmi  l'ombre  est  un  corps  lumineux.' 

It  will  cost  him  nothing  to  connect  with  the  objects  he 
describes,  effects  that  are  absolutely  contrary  to  their 
nature.  Thus,  he  depicts  the  Maid  of  Orleans  to  us  as 
entirely  •'  shaded  by  a  celestial  fire  ;"  and  instead  of  fly- 
ing from  heaven  to  earth,  the  luminous  angel  whom  the 
Almighty  sends  to  the  Maid,  to  reveal  to  her  her  mission — 

"  . .  .^  .  .Tombe  sur  le  bois  où  la  fille  médite  ; 
L'ombrage  s'en  éloigne  et  ces  flammes  évite." 

In  the  same  manner  we  shall  see  the  Loire — - 

"  Murmurer  en  son  cours  de  voir  les  matelots, 
Pour  avancer  le  leur,  battre  ses  vites  eaux." 

As  we  advance  toward  the  mouth  of  the  river,  we  shall 
behold  "its  wave  drowning  itself"  in  an  ampler  bed.  It 
we  would  take  the  trouble  to  seek  them  out,  we  might 
easily  find  a  hundred  instances  of  similar  absurdity  :  but 
we  must  here  repeat,  lest  it  should  be  forgotten,  that 
Chapelain  was,  notwithstanding  all  his  faults,  a  man  of 
sense,  convinced  of  the  necessity  of  adhering  to  truth, 
and  determined,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  first  preface,  to 
avoid  "  the  affected  and  immoderate  ingeniosity"  of  Lu- 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  267 

can — who  was  so  highly  esteemed  by  the  "vulgar"  of 
his  age — and  "to  follow  in  the  footsteps"  of  Virgil. 

Chapelain  is,  therefore,  always  in  pursuit  of  that  truth 
which  so  often  eludes  his  grasp.  Sometimes  even  he 
meets  with  it,  but  then  he  falls  into  another  misfortune  : 
the  truth  which  presents  itself  to  his  observation  is  sel- 
dom or  never  noble,  elegant,  and  poetic  truth,  such  as 
the  imagination  can  conceive  in  its  happiest  moments, 
but  common  truth,  trivial  circumstances  which  strike 
the  eye  when  contemplating  the  most  ordinary  objects. 
His  pictures  are  almost  always  descriptions,  and  his  de- 
scriptions rarely  consist  of  really  interesting  features  of 
the  object  which  he  desires  to  represent.  When  narrating 
the  death  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  and  the  cruel  care  with 
which  the  people  prepared  her  funeral  pile.  Chapelain 
does  not  omit  to  mention  a  single  fagot.  After  plaster- 
ing the  first  layer  of  sticks  with  pitch  : 

"  II  met  sur  cette  couche  une  seconde  couche, 
Et  la  souche  d'en  haut  croise  le  basse  souche  ; 
Mais,  pour  donner  au  feu  plus  de  force  et  plus  d'air, 
Le  bois  en  chaque  couche  est  demi-large  et  clair. 
A  la  couche  seconde  une  troisième  est  jointe  .•: 

Qui,  plus  courte,  la  croise  et  commence  la  pointe  ; 
Plusieurs  de  suite  en  suite  à  ces  trois  s'ajoutant. 
Toujours  de  plus  en  plus  vont  en  pointe  montant. " 

He  will  not  suffer  us  to  lose  a  single  item  of  the  pre- 
parations for  the  consecration  of  the  king  at  Rheims  ; 
and  begins  by — 

"  Dresser  en  echafaud  un  plancher  de  solives," 
the  "  long  planks"  of  which  are  afterward  covered — 
"  D'un  tapis  à  fond  d'or  semé  de  roses  blanches." 

After  a  victory  gained  by  the  French  over  the  English, 
he  represents  to  us  the  hungry  conquerors — 

" Le  couteau  dans  la  main, 

Sur  les  vivres  tranchés  assouvissant  leur  faim." 


268  COENEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

Roger,  the  brother  of  Agnes  Sorel,  explains  to  some  holy 
bishops  the  subjects  of  the  pictures  which  adorn  the  gal- 
lery of  Fontainebleau  ;  and  nothing  can  be  more  natural 
than  his  gestures  : 

"  Roger  lève  la  canne  et  la  voix  à  la  fois  ;  i 

L'œil  s'attache  à  la  canne  et  l'oreille  à  la  voix." 

But  Roger  can  not  be  always  speaking  and  walking  ; 
when  they  reach  the  end  of  the  gallery  : 

"  On  s'assied,  on  respire,  et  soudain  on  se  lève." 

And  then  the  poet  suddenly  displays  all  his  poetic  fire  in 
the  aggrandizement  of  the  smallest  objects  : 

"Ainsi  quand  l'Océan  s'ébranle  vers  la  grève. 
Et  par  un  flux  réglé,  sans  le  secours  des  vents, 
Se  roule  toujours  plus  sur  les  sables  mouvants  ; 
Contre  mont,  flot  sur  flot,  l'onde  vive  élevée, 
Aux  bornes  de  son  cours  à  peine  est  arrivée. 
Que  sa  masse  écumeuse,  en  se  rengloutissant, 
Dans  le  sein  de  l'abîme  aussitôt  redescend. 
Sur  ses  pas  on  retourne,  et  Roger  continue." 

How  grand  a  climax — how  happy  a  simile  is  this!  a 
page  and  two  bishops  walking  up  and  down  a  gallery, 
compared  to  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  ocean  !  Was  it 
such  tours  de  force  as  these  which  led  M.  G-aillard  to 
say  that  "  Chapelain  was  born  a  greater  poet  than  Boil- 
eau?'"  Was  it  this  passage  which  induced  him  to  de- 
clare that  his  companions  were  always  well-chosen  and 
"well-placed?" 

Were  it  not  for  the  example  which  I  have  just  quoted, 
it  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  coincide  in  M.  G-aillard's 


'  "If  it  wore  allowable  to  say  that  Chapelain  was  born  a  greater  poet 
than  Boiicau,  truth  would  gain  by  this  paradox."  See  p.  125  of  a  small 
volume  of  "Melanges  Littéraires,"  printed  at  Amsterdam  in  1756,  without 
the  author's  name. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  269 

opinion  with  regard  to  comparisons  which  recur  at  almost 
regular  intervals,  which  are  placed  with  even  greater  reg- 
ularity at  the  commencement  of  the  line,  like  borrowed 
ornaments,'  and  which  invariably  begin  with  Ainsi, 
Comme,  Tel,  or  Tel  que.  I  am,  nevertheless,  willing  to 
admit  that  the  reader  who  has  courage  enough  to  ex- 
amine closely  the  unpublished  part  of  the  poem  will  find 
it  to  be  characterized  by  a  nobler,  less  obscure,  and  more 
elaborate  style  than  the  rest  of  the  work  ;  he  will  even 
meet  with  well-chosen  dashes  of  truth  and  scintillations 
of  genius,  some  examples  of  which  I  would  gladly  quote, 
if  Chapelain's  talent  were  sufficiently  sustained  to  fur- 
nish an  entire  citation.  But  his  happiness  is  of  short 
duration  : 

"  Un  vers  noble,  quoique  dur 
Peut  briller  dans  la  Pucelle," 

says  Boileau  ;  '  but  when  this  is  the  case,  it  either  shines 
in  solitary  splendor,  or  is  so  miserably  accompanied,  that 
it  can  never  be  divested  of  the  vulgar  associations  by 
which  it  is  surrounded.  Thus  Chapelain  will  express 
with  honest  energy  the  indignation  with  which  he  is  in- 
spired by  the  enormities  committed  by  the  French  in  the 
suburbs  of  Paris,  which  they  have  carried  by  storm  :  he 
describes  them  as  slaying  the  vanquished  in  cold  blood  ; 
henceforward — 


"  Le  combat  est  infâme  et  la  victoire  est  triste. 
L'honneur  ne  peut  souffrir  tant  de  lâches  rigueurs  : 
La  peine  est  aux  vaincus,  la  honte  est  aux  vainqueurs." 

This  last  line  is  fine.     There  is  also  considerable  noble- 

"  Et  ses  froids  ornements  à  la  ligne  plantés." 

Boileau,  Satire  iv.  line  100. 
*  Boileau,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  p.  175,  parody  of  the  first  Pindaric  Ode. 


270  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPOEARIES. 

ness  in  this  portrait  of  the  Maid,  which  bears  some  re- 
semblance to  that  of  Tasso's  Sophronia  : 

"  Les  douceurs,  les  souris,  les  attraits  ni  les  charmes, 
De  ce  visage  altier  ne  forment  point  les  armes  ; 
Il  est  beau  de  lui-même  ;  il  dompte  sans  charmer  ; 
Et  fait  qu'on  le  révère  et  qu'on  n'ose  l'aimer. 
Pour  tous  soins,  une  fière  et  sainte  négligence 
De  sa  mâle  beauté  rehausse  rexcellence." 

But  a  few  lines  before,  we  should  behold  "her  severe 
aspect:" 

"  Des  moins  respectueux  attirer  le  respect." 

And,  a  few  lines  afterward,  we  should  find  that — 

" Ses  regards  flamboyans 

Percent  et  brûlent  tout  de  leurs  traits  foudroyans." 

I  can  not  refrain  from  quoting  some  eloquent  passages 
from  the  speech  delivered  by  the  Maid  to  her  rebellious 
army,  whom  her  aspect  has  stricken  with  shame  and 
stupor.  She  arrives  in  the  camp,  and  pretending  that 
she  can  not  recognize  it,  inquires  what  has  become  of  it  : 

"  Leurs  mains  contre  Bedford  sont  sans  doute  occupées, 
Et  de  rebelle  sang  font  rougir  leurs  épées, 
Car  ces  fronts  étonnés,  ses  visages  blêmis, 
Sont  ceux  qu'en  me  voyant  prennent  mes  ennemis  ; 
C'est  là  du  Bourguignon  la  morne  contenance  ; 
C'est  ainsi  que  l'Anglois  se  trouble  en  ma  présence." 

Here  I  must  stop  ;  for  the  poet,  who,  unfortunately,  did 
not  know  when  he  should  have  stopped,  spoils  this  idea 
by  extending  it  through  the  two  following  lines. 

Chapelain  also  gives  a  graceful  picture  of  Marie,  timidly 
busied  in  tending  Dunois;  and  who,  without  venturing 
to  remind  him  of  his  love  for  the  Maid,  tries  in  what  way 
she  may  resemble  her  rival.  On  one  occasion,  she  dons 
the  cuirass  and  helmet  of  her  lover  : 

"  Cher  Dunois,  lui  dit-elle,  ils  ne  me  pèsent  pas, 
Et  je  pourrois  sous  ev.x  affronter  le  trépas  : 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  271 

Pour  te  suivre  partout  où  la  gloire  te  porte, 
Mon  amitié  du  moins  me  rendroit  assez  forte  ; 
Et  ce  valeureux  fer  redouté  des  humains, 
Se  pourroit  signaler  entre  mes  foibles  mains." 

These  lines,  although  an  imitation  of  Armida's  speech  to 
Rinaldo,'  justly  belong  to  Chapelain,  who  has  used  the 
same  idea  in  a  diftorent  manner;  and,  perhaps,  the  re- 
serve of  Marie  will  be  deemed  as  touching  as  the  passion 
of  Armida.  This  reserve,  however  is  carried  too  far  when 
Marie  adds  that  "  modesty"  alone  prevents  her  from  fol- 
lowing Dunois  to  the  fight;  the  effect  of  the  movement 
is  thus  entirely  destroyed,  and  Chapelain  re-appears  in 
his  true  character. 

I  will,  however,  endeavor  to  quote  one  or  two  compari- 
sons in  which  the  truth,  when  conceived  in  a  really  strik- 
ing and  poetical  manner,  is  not  spoiled  by  the  expression. 
In  the  following  extract  the  poet  alludes  to  young  Lio- 
nel, the  son  of  Talbot,  whom  an  unrequited  passion  for 
Marie  has  reduced  almost  to  death,  and  whose  physical 
powers  can  scarcely  recover  the  shook  : 

"  Tel  un  lys  orgueilleux,  sur  qui  d'un  gros  nttage. 
Durant  la  fraîche  nuit,  s'est  déchargé  l'orage, 
Et  qui  sous  cet  effort  coup  sur  coup  redoublé, 
Et  s'abat  et  languit  de  la  grêle  accablé  ; 
Bien  qu'aux  puissans  rayons  du  Dieu  de  la  lumière 
Il  reprenne  l'éclat  de  sa  beauté  première, 
Qu'il  se  relève  enfin  de  son  abattement, 
S'il  revient  de  sa  chute,  il  revient  lentement." 

Although  the  first  lines  are  rather  strained,  the  image,  as 
a  whole,  is  agreeable  and  well  expressed. 

In  another  place,  the  brave  Talbot  himself,  surrounded 

'  "  Animo  ho  bene,  ho  ben  vigor  che  baste 

A  condurti  i  cavalli,  à  portar  Paste  :" 
which  Fairfax  thus  translates  : 

"  Courage  I  have  and  strength  enough,  perchance. 
To  lead  thy  courser  spare  and  bear  thy  lance." 

Tasso,  "  Gerusalemme  Liberata,"  book  xvi.  stanza  48. 


272  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

by  enemies,  gives  himself  up  for  lost  ;  but  his  courage 
does  not  fail  him  : 

"  II  est  désespéré,  mais  non  pas  abattu, 
Et  médite  un  trépas  digne  de  sa  vertu  ; 
Tel  est  un  grand  lion,  roi  des  monts  de  Cyrène, 
Lorsque  de  tout  un  peuple  entouré  sur  l'arène, 
Contre  sa  noble  vie  il  voit  de  toutes  parts, 
Unis  et  conjurés  les  épieux  et  les  dards. 
Reconnaissant  pour  lui  la  mort  inévitable. 
Il  résout  à  la  mort  son  courage  indomptable  ; 
Il  y  va  sans  faiblesse,  il  y  va  sans  effroi. 
Et  la  devant  souffrir,  la  veut  souffrir  en  roi." 

Having  thus  endeavored  to  point  out  the  excellencies 
of  Chapelain's  style,  shall  I  know  have  the  courage  to 
revert  to  its  habitual  defects  ?  Shall  I  insist  upon  that 
triviality  of  expression  which  is  not  only  connected  with 
triviality  of  imagery,  but  which  frequently  imparts  mean- 
ness to  that  which  would  otherwise  be  merely  simple  : 
as,  for  example,  when  the  poet  makes  his  combatants 
"  take  a  rude  leap,"  or  fall  "with  their  legs  upward  and 
their  heads  hanging  down,"  or  represents  the  Maid  of  Or- 
leans as  bearing  "upon  her  back,"  the  whole  weight  of 
the  war  ?  Shall  I  speak  of  those  obscurities  which  a 
vicious  construction  accumulates  upon  the  existing  ob- 
scurity of  the  idea,  as  in  these  lines  : 

"  La  grandeur  du  Très-Haut  es  son  objet  unique  ; 
Elle  en  repaît  le  feu  de  son  amour  pudique, 
Et  par  les  vifs  élans  de  sa  dévote  ardeur 
Monte  jusqu'à  sa  gloire,  et  soutient  sa  splendeur." 

Shall  I  quote  instances  of  those  affected  repetitions, 
equally  devoid  of  gracefulness  and  meaning,  or  of  those 
strange  analogies  of  sound,  which  Chapelain  is  constant- 
ly striving  to  introduce,  although  it  is  impossible  to  di- 
vine what  effect  he  intends  them  to  produce  ;  as  when 
he  says  of  Joan  of  Arc  : 

"  L'Anglois  sur  elle  tonne,  et  tonne  à  grands  éclats  ; 
Mais  poux  tonner  sur  elle,  il  ne  l'étonné  pas." 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  273 

Has  not  Boileau  done  ample  justice  to  those  "harsh  lines 
of  inflated  epithets,"  to  those  lines — 

" Et  sans  force  et  sans  grâces 

Montés  sur  deux  grands  mots  comme  sur  des  échasses," 

and  to — 

"  Ces  termes  sans  raison  l'un  de  l'autre  écartés,'" 

to  those  exaggerated  expressions,  and  generally  to  all  the 
faults  of  that  uncouth  style,  'which  was  so  constantly  the 
object  of  his  animadversion  that  he  never  seems  to  have 
thought  of  bringing  any  other  charge  against  the  author 
of  the  "Pucelle?" 

Style  is,  in  fact,  that  in  "which  Chapelain  is  particu- 
larly deficient,  even  more  so  than  most  of  his  contempo- 
raries ;  to  whom,  notwithstanding  all  I  have  said,  the 
author  of  the  "  Pucelle"  is  superior  in  the  justness  and 
even  nobleness  of  his  ideas,  feelings,  and  images,  in  the 
arrangement  of  his  plan,  and  in  the  observance  of  the 
proprieties.  He  has  done  all  that  study  and  reflection 
could  effect,  at  the  time  in  which  he  lived  ;  but  genius 
alone  could  supply  the  déficiences  of  a  language  which 
was  as  yet  equally  destitute  of  forms  and  rules.  An  ex- 
tensive acquaintance  with  the  ancient  authors  was  use- 
less to  a  man  who  was  unable  to  find  words  in  which  to 
express  their  thoughts  ;  and  Chapelain,  who  aimed  at 
following  in  the  footsteps  of  Virgil,  did  not  know  enough 
French  fully  to  appreciate  the  beauties  of  the  Latin  poet. 

It  is  less,  however,  in  consequence  of  his  déficiences 
than  of  his  lofty  pretensions  to  merit,  that  Chapelain  has 
obtained  the  unenviable  distinction  of  beholding  the  rid- 
icule cast  upon  his  poems  handed  down  to  our  times. 
Most  of  his  contemporaries  have  obtained  the  privilege  of 

*  Boileau,  Satire  iv.  lines  91,  96,  97,  99. 


274  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

enjoying  perfect  obscurity,  though  far  more  ridiculous 
than  he  was: 

"  Le  Jonas  inconnn  sèche  dans  la  poussière, 
Le  David  imprimé  n"a  point  vu  la  lumière, 
Le  Moyse  commence  à  moisir  par  les  bords  ; 
Quel  mal  cela  fuit-il  1     Ceux  qui  sont  morts  sont  morts.'" 

Chapelain  was  never  "dead"  enough  to  grant  repose  to 
the  vigilant  anxiety  of  Boileau,  and  to  calm  the  indig- 
nation of  the  great  critic  against  the  most  illustrious  ex- 
ample of  the  bad  taste  of  his  age.  Even  after  his  miser- 
able failure  as  a  poet,  Chapelain's  reputation  as  a  man 
of  letters  had  continued  unimpaired.  In- 1663,  he  was 
appointed  by  Colbert  to  distribute  the  pensions  bestowed 
by  the  King  upon  authors  of  merit  ;  and  the  submissive 
respect  which  this  office  inspired  for  the  man  who  filled 
it  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  justified  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  exercised  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  affirm  that 
Chapelain  altogether  resisted  the  seductions  of  almost 
arbitrary  power,  and  that  the  self-love  of  the  man  of  let- 
ters did  not  sometimes  influence  the  justice  of  the  judge. 
Gronovius,  a  learned  Dutchman,  complained  of  not  hav- 
ing been  included  in  the  list  of  pensions  ;  and  Chape- 
lain  confesses,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  that  he  had  not 
insisted  strongly  upon  his  merit,  because  of  the  little 
eagerness  with  which  he  had  met  his  advances."*  The 
success  with  which  flattery  was  attended  when  address- 
ed to  him  is  demonstrated  by  the  liberal  use  which  was 
made  of  it.  Those,  who  placed  the  "  Pucelle"  above  the 
^neid  were  sure-  to  be   well  received  by   him  ;°  and 

'  Boileau,  Satire  ix.  lines  191-194. 
•   Chapelain,  "  Melanges  do  Littérature,"  p.  41. 

^  See,  in  Saint-Marc's  edition  of  Boilcaii's  Works,  the  note  on  these  lines 
of  his  fourth  satire  : 

"  Lui-même  il  s'applaudit,  et,  d'un  esprit  tranquille. 
Prend  lo  pas  au  Parnasse  au-dessus  de  Virgile." 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  ~  27ô 

of  the  different  methods  of  paying  court  to  him,  the 
slander  of  his  enemies  seems  to  have  been  not  the  least 
effective. 

" Pour  flatter  ce  riineur  tutélaire, 

Le  frère  en  un  besoin  va  renier  son  frère,'" 

said  Boileau,  whose  brother  Gilles  Boileau,  who  did  not 
love  him,  spoke  of  him  in  less  friendly  terms  to  Chape- 
lain  than  to  other  persons.  We  also  learn  the  value  which 
he  set  upon  the  deference  of  an  author,  from  the  notes 
which  he  addressed  to  Colbert  :  one  of  the  recommenda- 
tions of  D'Ablancourt  is,  "  that  he  would  receive  the  ad- 
vice that  was  given  him  ;"  Mézerai's  great  deficiency  is, 
that  "  he  can  not  behave  with  docility;"  Furetière  would 
be  capable  of  great  things,  "  if  he  would  allow  himself  to 
be  guided  ;"  there  would  be  reason  to  hope  much  of  Sil- 
hon,  "  if  he  would  allow  himself  to  be  advised  ;"  and  Le 
Clerc,  in  his  mediocrity,  at  least  possesses  all  the  merit 
of  a  man  "  who  will  take  good  advice."-  All  this  indi- 
cates, as  his  whole  life  had  fostered,  in  the  author  of  the 
"  Pucelle,"  that  necessity  for  pre-eminence  which,  ac- 
cording to  Segrais,  led  him  to  bestow  no  praise  "  on  those 
who  he  thought  might  oast  him  into  the  shade,  if  their 
merit  came  to  be  known,  and  who  were  actually  residing 
in  Paris  or  at  the  Court  ;"  and  to  honor  with  his  esteem 
"  those  only  who  were  far  distant,  in  some  obscure  cor- 
ner of  a  remote  province."'  There  is,  however,  no  reason 
to  believe  that  this  distrustful  self-love  corrupted  Chape- 

Chapelain,  in  the  Preface  to  his  last  twelve  books,  leaves  his  readers  to  judge 
"  whether  the  address  of  the  Legates  to  Bedford,  Charles,  and  Philip,  does  or 
does  not  prevail  over  that  of  Nestor  and  Venus  to  Achilles  and  Diomcde." 

'  These  lines,  quoted  in  the  note  to  the  94th  line  of  the  1st  satire,  were 
suppressed  in  the  edition  of  1674,  and  have  appeared  in  no  subsequent  im- 
pression. 

2   Chapelain,  '•  Melanges  de  Littérature,"  pp.  239,  242,  246,  247 

^  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  227. 


276  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

Iain's  fidelity  in  the  important  and  delicate  employmeni 
which  he  had  been  appointed  to  discharge.  Whether  he 
held  the  balance  fairly  between  Charpentier,  Silhon,  Le 
Clerc,  Sorbières,  Boyer,  the  Abbé  de  la  Pure,  and  others, 
is  a  matter  upon  which  I  will  not  venture  to  decide.  Ill- 
temper  may  have  rendered  him  unjust  toward  Ménage, 
with  whom  he  had  quarreled  ;'  but  Segrais,  Patru,  and 
D'Ablancourt  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  judg- 
ment concerning  them.""  He  rendered  full  justice  to 
Corneille  ;'  and,  in  the  strange  dryness  of  his  note  upon 
Molière,^  we  merely  recognize  the  first  effect  produced  by 
too  novel  and  original  a  genius  upon  an  age  which  he 
had  not  yet  taught  to  admire  him. 

Chapelain's  contemporaries  have  generally  borne  testi- 
mony to  his  probity  and  sincerity,  to  the  affability  of  his 
manners,  and  his  easiness  of  access  ;  but  we  must  not 
expect  to  find,  in  a  circumspect  character  like  his,  the 
free  and  generous  virtues  of  an  exalted  nature.  "  He  is 
a  man,"  he  says  of  himself,  in  his  memorial  to  Colbert, 
"who  makes  an  exact  profession  of  loving  virtue  disin- 
terestedly.'" "  Exact  indeed  he  was,"  says  Ménage, 
"  very  punctual,  and  a  formalist  in  all  his  actions  ;"°  he 

'  See  the  note  on  Ménage,  in  the  "  Melanges,"  p.  186  et  seq.  ;  and  also 
what  Chapelain  says  of  him  elsewhere,  in  a  letter  to  Heinsius,  p.  95.  This 
last  passage  will  suffice  to  explain  the  other  Segrais  in  his  account  of  the 
quarrel,  attributes  the  blame  to  Chapelain,  whom  he  disliked,  and  who  had 
refused  him  his  vote  at  the  Academy,  to  give  it  to  I^e  Clerc,  although  he 
had  addressed  him  in  an  ode,  "  which  is  not,"'  he  says,  "  the  least  excel- 
lent of  my  poems." 

^  "  See  the  "Mélanges  de  Littérature." 

'  "  He  is  a  prodigy  of  wit,  and  the  ornament  of  the  French  drama." 
"  Mélanges  de  l^ittératuro,"  p.  2.')0. 

■'  "  He  is  well  aciiuaintod  with  the  character  of  comedy,  and  executes  it 
naturally  :  the  plot  of  his  best  pieces  is  borrowed,  but  judiciously;  his  mo- 
rality is  good,  and  he  needs  only  to  guard  against  scurrility." — Chapelain, 
"  Mélanges  de  Littérature,"  p.  192. 

^  Chapelain,  "Mélanges  de  Littérature,"  p.  233. 

*  "Menagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  73. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  277 

had  studied  virtue  as  he  had  studied  poetics,  and  ho 
observed  its  rules  with  equal  precision,  as  far  as  the 
limits  of  his  knowledge  and  character  would  allow  him  to 
do  so.  He  was  well  aware  of  the  duties  of  friendship, 
and  always  manifested  the  utmost  carefulness  to  fulfill 
them;  "nevertheless,"  says  Segrais,  "his  friendship  was 
the  friendship  of  a  coward  :  he  wished  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  both  goat  and  wolf.'"  Without  admitting 
Segrais'  opinion  and  expression  in  all  their  severity,  we 
shall,  at  all  events,  find  in  Chapelain's  letters  abundant 
proofs  of  his  unwillingness  to  commit  himself  in  the 
disputes  between  his  friends  and  acquaintance.*  Acts  of 
virtue,  when  carried  beyond  what  would  be  advised  by 
ordinary  prudence,  were  not  sure  to  receive  his  approba- 
tion. Heinsius,  when  appointed  Secretary  of  the  United 
Provinces,  had  to  share  this  office  with  one  of  his  rela- 
tives, who  had  previously  held  sole  possession  of  it,  and 
he  therefore  wished  to  leave  him  all  its  emoluments. 
"  Although  this  betokens  a  noble  feeling  on  your  part," 
wrote  Chapelain  to  him,  "I  do  not  know  that.it  is  alto- 
gether reasonable."^  Le  Fèvre,  the  father  of  Madame 
Dacier,  whom  Pelisson  had  benefited  with  the  utmost 
delicacy,  dedicated  a  book  to  him  during  his  confinement 
in  the  Bastille;  and  "some  persons,"  says  Ménage, 
"among  whom  was  M.  Chapelain,  found  fault  with  him 
for  so  doing."*  Although  he  was  always  willing  to  be  of 
service  to  men  of  letters,  there  was  one  kind  of  service 
which  they  never  obtained  from  Chapelain  ;  the  word 
"  give,"  it  would  appear,  was  as  little  used  by  him  as  by 
Harpagon.     One  day,  however,  he  allowed  his  feelings  to 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  222. 

*  See  in  the  "Mélanges,"  p.  137,  his  letter  to  Huyghens,  on  the  quarrel 
between  Gilles  Boileau  and  Ménage. 

*  Chapelain,  "  Mélanges  de  Littérature,"  p.  83. 
^  "Ménagiana,"  vol.  ii.  p.  17. 


278  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORAEIES. 

carry  him  away  so  far  as  to  relieve  the  pressing  necessi- 
ties of  one  of  his  friends  hy  the  magnificent  gift  of  a 
crown-piece  :  he  thought  he  might  justly  take  credit  to 
himself  for  this  effort  of  generosity  ;  and  when  he  men- 
tioned the  affair,  he  used  to  say  :  "  We  ought  to  succour 
our  friends  in  their  necessities  ;  but  we  ought  not  to  con- 
tribute to  their  luxury.'"  In  Chapelain's  opinion,  luxury 
corresponded  with  what  people  of  the  simplest  habits  con- 
sider to  be  necessaries.  Possessing  an  annual  income  of 
thirteen  thousand  livres,*  which  was  then  equivalent  to 
more  than  twenty-five  thousand  francs  at  the  present  day, 
"  he  contented  himself  with  a  little  ordinary,  which  was 
prepared  for  him  by  a  female  relative,  to  whom  he  paid  a 
regular  stipend  ;"  and  on  those  days  on  which  he  dined 
out,  his  relative  made  him  an  allowance  for  his  dinner.' 
His  correspondence  was  very  extensive  ;  but,  anxious  to 
save  himself  the  expense  of  postage,  he  was  careful  to  re- 
quest his  friends  to  write  to  him  only  by  private  hands  ',* 
and  he  frequently  used,  for  his  answers,  the  envelopes  of 
the  letters  which  he  had  received.^  All  the  details  of 
his  life  corresponded  with  this  excess  of  economy  ;  and 
Ménage,  on  paying  him  a  visit  for  the  first  time  after 
twelve  years  of  separation,  declared  that  the  same  logs 
were  burning  on  the  hearth  which  he  had  seen  there 
twelve  years  before:* 

Chapelain's  avarice  was  a  perpetual  subject  of  diver- 
sion to  his  friends  and  acquaintance.  As  he  had  no  wife 
or  children,  no  one  could  imagine  why  he  should  be  so 
desirous  to  hoard  his  wealth.  "  The  wags  said  that  it 
was  in  order  to  marry  his  maid  ^  to  some  yoiing  fellow  of 


'  "  Sograisiana,"  p.  225. 

*  Ibid.  p.  226. 

'  "  Scgraisiana,"  p.  231. 

*  Ibid. 

^  Vignml-Marville,  "Mélanges,' 

'  vol.  ii.  p.  7. 

"  "  Ménagiana,"  vol.  ii.  p.  31. 

'  The  "  Purelle." 

JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  279 

good  family  ;  and  the  pious  declared  that  it  was  in  order 
to  obtain  canonization."  '  His  colleagues  at  the  French 
Academy  derived  much  amusement  from  his  fear  of  being 
appointed  its  director,  and  the  care  which  he  took  to 
avoid  this  honor,  which,  in  case  of  the  death  of  one  of  the 
Academicians,  would  have  put  him  to  the  expense  of 
twenty  livres  for  the  performance  of  a  funeral  service  in 
the  Eglise  des  Billettes.  One  of  their  number.  Chancel- 
lor Seguier,  the  protector  of  the  Academy,  being  eighty- 
four  years  of  age,  was  a  threat  perpetually  hanging  over 
his  head.  At  length  the  Chancellor  fell  ill  ;  the  post  of 
director  became  vacant,  and,  either  by  chance,  or  by  the 
intention  of  those  who  knew  his  character,  Chapelain 
was  appointed.  His  anguish  may  be  more  readily  imag- 
ined than  described.  Nevertheless,  the  threemonths  of 
his  directorship  passed  by,  and  the  Chancellor  still  lived  ; 
but  he  could  not  survive  long,  and  Chapelain  became 
desirous  to  resign  his  office.  Unfortunately,  on  the  day 
of  their  session,  the  number  of  Academicians  was  not 
complete,  and  the  nomination  of  his  successor  was  de- 
ferred to  another  day.  During  the  interval,  the  Chancel- 
lor died.  Chapelain  was  in  despair.  "I  am  ruined," 
he  said  ;  "  my  property  will  not  be  sufficient  :  if  it  were 
a  simple  Academician,  it  would  be  less  grievous  ;  but  the 
Protector  !  This  expense  will  reduce  me  to  beggary  I" 
"  G-ood,"  said  Patru,  "  the  Cardinal  was  at  least  worth 
as  much  as  the  Chancellor.  I  was  director  when  he 
died;  I  had  his  service  performed  entirely  at  my  own 
expense  ;  it  merely  cost  me  two  pistoles  more,  and  the 
matter  was  managed  very  vv^ell."  Two  pistoles  were  a 
great  deal  too  much  for  Chapelain  ;  and  he  therefore  de- 
clared that  it  was  not  enough  for  the  Chancellor,  pre- 
tended that  he  was  not  rich  enough  to  act  in  a  manner 

'   Vigneul-Marville,  "  Mélanges,"  vol.  ii.  p.  7. 


280  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

becoming  the  importance  of  the  occasion,  and  at  last  in- 
duced every  Academician  to  contribute  according  to  his 
means  and  will.  As  he  collected  the  contributions,  he 
may  have  abstained  from  paying  his  own  quota  ;  and  it 
was  even  suspected  that  he  made  a  profit  by  the  trans- 
action.' 

It  will  readily  be  imagined  that  Chapelain  did  not  re- 
ject the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  assiduous  attend- 
ance at  the  Academy  ;  and,  in  this  particular,  his  avarice 
gave  confirmation  to  his  natural  exactitude.  He  was 
proceeding  thither  one  day,  after  some  heavy  rain,  and, 
on  arriving  in  the  Rue  St.  Honoré,  he  found  the  stream 
so  wide  that  he  could  not  step  across.  A  plank  had  been 
provided  for  the  accommodation  of  passengers,  but  a  small 
fee  was  required  to  be  paid  for  its  use  ;  so  Chapelain  pre- 
ferred to  wait  until  the  water  had  flowed  away.  Mean- 
while three  o'clock  drew  near  ;  in  a  few  minutes  more 
he  would  be  too  late,  and  would  lose  his  fee.  Chapelain 
decided  at  once  ;  plunged  into  the  water  nearly  up  to 
his  knees  ;  arrived  in  time  at  the  Academy  ;  and,  in- 
stead of  going  near  the  fiire,  carefully  concealed  his  legs 
under  the  table,  for  fear  any  one  should  perceive  his  mis- 
adventure. Chapelain  was  then  more  than  seventy-nine 
years  old  :  the  cold  seized  upon  him,  settled  in  his  chest, 
and  he  died  a  few  days  afterward,^  on  the  22d  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1674,  leaving  to  his  heirs,  according  to  some  state- 
ments, a  fortune  of  one  hundred  thousand  crowns,^  and, 
according  to  others,  four  hundred  thousand  livres,  more 
than  two  hundred  thousand  of  which  were  in  ready 
money."  . 

A   paraphrase   of  the  "  Miserere,"  and   three    or   four 

1  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  223  ct  seq.  *  Ibid,  pp.  226,  227. 

'   Vigncul- Manille,  "  Mélanges,"  vol.  ii.  p.  7. 
*  "  Segraisiana,"  pp.  225,  226. 


JEAN  CHAPELAIN.  281 

small  poems,  compose,  with  the  "  Pucelle,"  the  whole  of 
Chapelain's  productions  in  verse.  His  preface  to  the 
"  Adone,"  and  a  few  passages  from  his  letters,  inserted 
in  the  "  Mélanges  de  Littérature,"  are  the  only  monu- 
ments which  remain  to  us  of  his  talents  as  a  critic. 


JEAN  ROTROU. 

(1609-1650.) 


A  MAN  of  genius  has  two  classes  of  disciples.  One 
class  is  composed  of  mere  imitators,  who  strive  only  to 
reproduce  the  manner  of  theii'  master,  catch  with  tolera- 
ble exactness  the  forms  of  his  style,  devote  their  atten- 
tion to  the  kind  of  subjects  which  he  treated  and  the 
ideas  which  he  preferred,  and  may  even  furnish  us  with 
that  inferior  gratification  which  a  poor  copy  affords,  by 
reviving  our  recollection  of  the  impressions  produced  by 
the  contemplation  of  a  splendid  original.  Duryer  cer- 
tainly had  "  Cinna"  constantly  before  his  eyes  while  he 
was  writing  his  tragedy  of  "  Scévole."  Junia,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Brutus,  and  mistress  of  Scsevola,  is  a  prisoner  in 
the  camp  of  Porsenna.  She  is  told  that  Scaevola  has 
been  seen  in  the  camp,  disguised  as  an  Etrurian  soldier  ; 
and  her  informant  adds,  that  he  has  assumed  this  dis- 
guise in  order  to  escape  ;  upon  which  she  exclaims  : 

"  Pour  se  sauver,  dis-tu  1  tu  n'as  point  vu  Scévole  !" 

In  his  tragedy  of  "  Saul,"  that  monarch,  smitten  by  the 
hand  of  Grod,  trembles  before  the  army  of  the  Philistines  ; 
and  Jonathan  thus  endeavors  to  rekindle  his  father's 
courage  : 

"  Est-il  (lone  en  état  do  donner  do  l'effroi  1 
A-t-il  apjjris  à  vaincre  en  fuyant  devant  moi'! 


JEAN  ROTROU.  283 

Laissez  voler  la  crainte  où  l'ennemi  s'assemble  ; 
Un  roi  n'est  pas  troublé  que  son  trône  ne  tremble  ; 
Mais  il  conno.t  trop  tard,  quand  il  a  succombé, 
Que  le  trône  qui  tremble  est  à  demi-tombé. 
Croyez  en  vos  enfans,  croyez  en  leur  courage, 
D'un  triomphe  immortel  l'infaillible  présa<re  ; 
Dans  le  sein  de  la  gloire  ils  ont  toujours  vécu  ; 
Enfin,  je  suis  le  moindre,  et  j'ai  toujours  vaincu." 

Who  can  not  recognize,  in  these  lines,  the  model  whioh 
Duryer  had  constantly  before  his  eyes  ?  AVho  does  not 
feel,  when  perusing  them,  something  of  that  emotion 
with  which  we  are  inspired  by  the  magnificent  verses  of 
Corneille  ? 

The  other  class  of  disciples  pay  less  attention  to  the 
examples  furnished  them  by  their  master  than  to  the 
emotion  which  those  examples  originate  in  their  souls. 
They  feel  that  faculties  are  awakened  within  them  by 
the  voice  of  genius,  which,  but  for  its  summons,  would 
have  lain  dormant  within  their  breasts,  but  which  are, 
nevertheless,  their  own  individual  and  natural  faculties. 
They  have  received  the  impulse,  but  they  direct  it  ac- 
cording to  their  own  judgment  ;  and  if  their  productions 
do  not  exhibit  the  sustained  energy  of  those  spontaneous 
outbursts  which  are  the  unfettered  fruits  of  the  ascen- 
dency of  an  imperious  nature,  they,  at  least,  possess  a 
certain  measure  of  originality,  and  even  of  life-giving 
fecundity.  "Venceslas"  is  one  of  those  original  works 
which  owe  their  existence  to  an  extraneous  impulse. 
Rotrou,  who  had  long  been  a  dramatic  author  utterly 
destitute  of  all  inspiration,  proved  himself  a  poet  after 
he  had  heard  Corneille. 

Jean  Rotrou  was  born  at  Dreux,  on  the  19th  of  Au- 
gust, 1609,  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family,'  which, 

^  Pierre  Rotrou  was  lieutenant-general  of  the  bailiwick  of  Dreux  in  1561. 
At  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  beginning  of  the  eighteenth. 
Eustache  de  Rotrou  was  a  royal  councilor,  president,  and  civil  and  criminal 


284  CORNEILLE'S  COIVTEMPORARIES. 

both  before  and  after  his  lifetime,  held  high  magisterial 
offices  in  that  town.  It  appears,  however,  that  Rotrou's 
father,  satisfied  with  the  competency  which  he  derived 
from  the  possession  of  a  moderate  fortune,  lived  on  his 
property  without  engaging  in  any  profession.  We  do 
not  know  whetlier  the  son  was  intended  to  pursue  a 
similar  course  ;  and  we  are  equally  ignorant  of  the  ob- 
stacles or  facilities  which  he  encountered  in  following 
his  taste  for  a  dramatic  career,  and  of  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  the  formation  of  that  taste.  The  life  of  Ro- 
trou,  revealed  to  posterity  by  a  fine  poem  and  a  virtuous 
action,  has,  in  other  respects,  remained  entirely  unknown. 
The  first  fact  which  I  have  been  able  to  discover  regard- 
ing him  bears  the  date  of  1632.  Rotrou,  who  was  then 
twenty-three  years  of  age,  and  known  as  the  author  of 
seven  or  eight  theatrical  pieces — such  as  the  "  Hypocon- 
driaque," the  "  Bague  de  l'Oubli,"  "  Cléagenor  et  Do- 
ristée,"  the  "  Diane,"  the  "  Occasions  Perdues,"  and  per- 
haps the  "  Ménechmes"  and  the  "  Hercule  Mourant," — 
was  introduced  by  the  Count  de  Fiesque  to  Chapelain, 
who,  in  a  letter  to  Oodeau,  dated  October  30th,  1632, 
gives  an  account  of  his  visit,  and  adds  :  "  It  is  a  pity 
that  a  young  man  of  such  fine  natural  talent  should  have 
submitted  to  so  disgraceful  a  servitude;  but  it  will  not 
be  my  fault  if  we  do  not  soon  emancipate  him."  '  No 
explanation  can  be  given  of  these  words  of  Chapelain. 
What  could  have  been  the  nature  of  that  servitude  which 
was  considered  disgraceful  at  a  time  when  men  held 
such  very  lax  notions  on  this  point?     The  comedy  of 

lieutenant-general  of  the  bailiwick.  M.  de  Rotrou  do  Sodreville,  the  grand- 
nephew  of  the  poet  (sec  Titon  ilu  Ttllcl,  "  Parnasse  Français,"  p.  236, 
edit.  1732),  was  appointed  a  councilor  of  the  Great  Council  in  1728,  and 
his  sister  married  the  Manjuis  de  Rambutcau.  See  Lambert,  "Histoire 
Littéraire  du  Siècle  de  Louis  XIV."  vol.  ii.  p.  299. 
'  Chapelain,  "  Mélanges  de  Littérature,"  p.  4. 


JEAN    ROTROU.  285 

the  ''Hypocondriaque"  is  dedicated  to  the  Count  de 
Soissons,  of  whom  Rotrou  styles  himself  "the  very  hum- 
ble subject."  But  this  title,  which  may  lead  us  to  sup- 
pose that  Rotrou  considered  himself  dependent  upon  some 
appanage  of  the  Count  de  Soissons,  indicates  no  domes- 
tic servitude.  "Was  he  attached  to  the  household  of  the 
Count  de  Fiesque  ?  But,  even  supposing  this  to  have 
been  the  case,  it  could  not  have  been  regarded  as  a  dis- 
grace by  Chapelain,  who  had  been  so  long  in  the  service 
of  the  Marquis  de  la  Trousse.  I  should,  therefore,  be 
rather  inclined  to  suppose  that  he  was  engaged  as  author 
to  a  troop  of  comedians  ;  an  engagement  common  enough 
at  that  time,  and  of  which  Hardy  had  been  the  first  to 
set  the  example.  The  protection  of  the  Count  de  Fiesque, 
who  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  the  comedians,  to  whom 
he  had  frequently  rendered  essential  service,'  might  give 
greater  probability  to  this  supposition;  and  it  only  re- 
mains for  us  to  reconcile  the  idea  which  Chapelain  gives 
us  of  Rotrou's  position  with  what  we  know  regarding 
the  wealth  and  distinction  of  his  family.  Some  peculiari- 
ties of  Rotrou's  character,  which  have  been  handed  down 
to  our  times,  furnish  a  plausible  explanation  of  this  enig- 
ma. Exalted  feelings,  and  an  upright  and  generous  dis- 
position, are  not  sufficient  to  guard  a  man  against  fall- 
ing into  errors,  even  of  the  most  ignoble  kind.  Rotrou 
was  fond  of  play  ;  and  this  passion,  which  was  probably 
not  the  only  passion  of  his  youth,  so  violently  overcame 
all  his  resolutions,  that,  as  he  tells  us  himself,^  the  only 


'  "  When  it  was  proposed  to  induce  the  comedians  to  admit,  or  to  secure 
the  observance,  on  the  stage,  of  the  rule  of  twenty-four  hours,  Chapelain, 
who  was  very  anxious  for  the  adoption  of  this  rule,  which,  it  is  said,  he  was 
one  of  the  first  to  suggest  to  the  authors  of  his  time,  persuaded  the  Count 
de  Fiesque  to  undertake  the  negotiation,  because  his  influence  over  the 
comedians  was  well  known."     "  Segraisiana,"  p.  160. 

-  Lambert,  "  Histoire  Littéraire  du  Siècle  de  Louis  XIV."  vol.  ii.  p.  302. 


286  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

way  in  which  he  was  able  to  preserve  himself  from  the 

consequences  of  his  own  folly  was  by  throwing  his  money 
into  a  heap  of  fagots — rather  a  singular  kind  of  strong 
box — from  which  it  was  so  difficult  to  extract  it,  that 
his  impatience  allowed  it  to  lie  there  for  a  much  longer 
period  than  his  weakness  would  have  permitted  it  to 
remain  in  his  purse.  The  heap  of  fagots,  however, 
did  not  always  so  faithfully  retain  its  deposit  as  to  be 
never  empty.  Want  of  funds  sometimes  reduced  the 
poet  to  painful  extremities.  Just  as  he  had  finished 
"  Venceslas,"  Rotrou  was  arrested  for  a  trifling  debt, 
which  he  was  utterly  unable  to  pay.  In  this  state  of 
distress  any  bargain  was  good  which  would  relieve  the 
poet  from  his  difficulty  ;  and  "  Venceslas"  was  offered  to 
the  comedians,  and  sold  for  twenty  pistoles.^  There  is 
no  great  injustice  in  supposing  that  a  man,  who,  at 
thirty-eight  years  of  age,  exposed  himself  to  such  adven- 
tures, might,  when  only  eighteen,  have  found  himself 
compelled,  by  some  youthful  extravagance,  to  embrace 
the  aid  of  resources  quite  inconsistent  with  the  position 
which  he  was  born  to  occupy  in  society.  Undoubtedly, 
Chapelain's  good-will  was  not  useless  in  enabling  Rotrou 
to  escape  from  the  unsuitable  position  in  which  he  found 
himself  placed.  We  soon  find  him  figuring  as  one  of  the 
five  authors  who  were  pensioned  to  compose  dramas, 
under  the  directions  of  the  prime  minister;  and  this  new 
servitude,  being  more  liberally  paid  than  the  other,  must, 
on  that  ground  alone,  have  appeared  much  more  honor- 
able. It  is  unknown  at  what  period  he  received  from 
the  king  a  pension  of  a  thousand  livres.* 

'  To  this  sum,  after  the  success  of  "  Venceslas,"  they  thought  it  right  to. 
add  a  present.  We  do  not  know  vvliethcr  Rotrou  accepted  it  or  not.  See 
the  '•  Histoire  du  Theatre  Français,"  vol.  viii.  p.  189. 

''  Titon  du  Tillct,  "  Parnasse  Française,"  p.  235. 


JEAN  ROTROU.  287 

Associated,  in  the  confidence  of  the  Cardinal,  with  Col- 
letet,  Bois-Robert,  and  Corneille,  it  is  not  easy  to  per- 
ceive by  what  kind  of  services  Rotrou  could  have  obtain- 
ed over  the  last-named  poet  that  sort  of  superiority  which 
the  author  of  the  "  Cid"  seemed,  it  is  said,  to  acknowl- 
edge all  through  his  life,  by  giving  the  title  of  father  to 
a  colleague  who  was  younger  and  probably  less  serious 
than  himself.  Those  who  have  handed  down  this  anec- 
dote to  us  assure  us  that  it  was  from  Rotrou  that  Cor- 
neille had  learned  the  principles  of  dramatic  art  ;  but 
what  were  those  principles  which  were  known  to  Rotrou 
and  unknown  to  Corneille?  The  "Hypocondriaque," 
which  preceded  "  Mélite"  by  a  year  at  most,'  is  rather 
less  in  accordance  with  the  rules  than  the  latter  piece; 
for  Corneille  has  at  least  observed  unity  of  place,  which 
Rotrou  has,  like  most  of  his  contemporaries,  utterly  dis- 
regarded ;  and  as  for  good  sense  and  probability,  the 
"  Hypocondriaque"  can  not  assuredly  boast  any  superi- 
ority in  either  of  these  respects.  The  plot  of  "Mélite"  is 
a  model  of  reasonableness  in  comparison  with  thé  adven- 
tures of  Cloridan,  "  a  young  nobleman  of  Greece,"  who, 
on  his  way  to  the  Court  at  Corinth,  "  the  capital  city  of 
Grreece,"'^  goes  mad  on  being  told  that  his  mistress  is 
dead,  pretends  to  be  dead  himself,  takes  up  his  residence 
in  a  coffin,  and  only  recovers  from  his  insanity  on  behold- 
ing the  resuscitation  of  sham  corpses  by  the  sounds  of  • 
music,  by  which  he  is  led  to  believe  that  he  can  not  be 
dead  as  it  produces  no  corresponding  effect  upon  himself. 
It  is  true  that  Rotrou  afterward  made  honorable  amends 
for  the  defects  of  this  work  ;  and  with  greater  modesty 
tlian  most  of  his  colleagues,  he  confesses  in  the  argu- 

'  The  "  Histoire  du  Théâtre  Français"  gives  1628  as  the  date  of  its  per- 
formance. 
"  See  the  argument  at  the  beginning  of  the  "Hypocondriaque." 


288  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

ment  to  this  piece,  which  was  printed  in  1631,  three  years 
after  the  presumed  date  of  its  performance,  "  that  there 
are  many  excellent  poets,  but  not  at  twenty  years  of 
age."'  But  at  the  very  time  that  he  printed  this  con- 
fession, Rotrou  was  bringing  on  the  stage  the  "Heureuse 
Constance,"  one  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  Hungary  and 
the  next  in  Dalmatia  ;  when  twenty-five  years  old,  ho 
produced  the  "Belle  Alphrède,"  the  action  of  which  occurs 
partly  at  Oran,  and  partly  in  London  ;  and  in  1635  we  find, 
in  his  "  Innocente  Infidélité,"  some  courtiers  of  a  king  of 
Epirus  fighting  with  pistols.  This  last  piece  was  perform- 
ed during  the  year  in  which  Corneille  produced  "Médée." 
Compelled  as  we  are  to  proceed  from  conjecture  to  con- 
jecture, may  we  not  suppose  that  Rotrou's  more  energetic 
and  decided  character  had  afforded  him,  on  several  occa- 
sions, the  means  of  protecting  the  timid  simplicity  of  a 
great  man  whose  rival  his  just  modesty  did  not  allow  him 
to  think  of  becoming?  Among  the  wits  who  then  laid 
claim  to  some  reputation,  Rotrou  was  almost  the  only 
one  who  was  not  alarmed  at  the  glory  obtained  by  the 
"  Cid  ;"  and  he  doubtless  dared  to  defend  that  which  he 
was  worthy  to  admire.  The  continually-increasing  splen- 
dor of  that  poetical  renown  which  thenceforward  eclipsed 
the  fame  of  all  competitors,  only  inspired  Rotrou  with  a 
keener  admiration  of  the  beauties  which  he  beheld  so  lav- 
ishly displayed  before  his  eyes.  He  expressed  this  in  a 
remarkable  manner  in  the  "  Saint-Genest,"  a  common- 
place work  enough  in  other  respects  (especially  as  it 
appeared  several  years  after  "Polyeucte"^),  the  subject 

'  I'his  saying  of  Rotrou,  who  surely  did  not  wish  to  diminish  his  claims 
to  induji^'cnco,  would  place  the  date  of  the  composition  of  the  "  Hypocon- 
driaque'' in  the  year  1629. 

''  'I'he  performance  of  the  "  Veritahle  Saint-Genest,"  hy  Rotrou,  is  placed 
in  the  "Histoire  du  Théâtre  Français,"  in  the  year  1646.  In  164.5,  appear- 
ed another  "  Saint-Genest,"  hy  Dcsfontaincs,  which  is  not  quite  so  had  as 


JEAN  ROTROU.  289 

of  which  is  the  martyrdom  of  the  actor  G-enest,  who  was 
converted,-  on  the  stage,  by  an  angel  who  appeared  to 
him  white  he  was  performing,  in  presence  of  Diocletian, 
a  piece  against  the  Christians.  Rotrou  represents  Dio- 
cletian as  questioning  G-enest  upon  the  state  of  the  drama: 
and  he  inquires:  • 

"  Quelle  plume  est  en  règne,  et  quel  fameux  esprit 
S'est  acquis,  dans  le  cirque,  un  plus  juste  crédit  Î" 

G-enest  replies  : 

"  Nos  plus  nouveaux  sujets,  les  plus  dignes  de  Rome, 
Et  les  plus  grands  efforts  des  veilles  d'un  grand  homme, 
A  qui  les  rares  fruits  que  sa  Muse  a  produit. 
Ont  acquis  dans  la  scène  un  légitime  bruit, 
Et  de  qui  certes  l'art  comme  l'estime  est  juste, 
Portent  les  noms  fameux  de  Pompée  et  d'Auguste. 
Ces  poèmes  sans  prix,  où  son  illustre  main 
D'un  pinceau  sans  pareil  a  peint  l'esprit  Romain, 
Rendront  de  leurs  beautés  votre  oreille  idolâtre, 
Et  sont  aujourd'hui  l'âme  et  L'amour  du  théâtre." 

Though  this  eulogium  is  neither  well  placed  nor  well 
expressed,  it  is,  at  least,  very  candid.  Nothing  could 
trammel  the  movements  of  Rotrou's  just  and  generous 
character.  His  excessive  facility,  which  is  at  once  proved 
and  explained  to  us  by  the  thirty-five  dramas'  which 

Rotrou's  piece,  because  the  author  has  more  closely  imitated  "  Polyeucte." 
This  "  Saint-Genest"  has  been  inserted  by  mistake  in  the  collection  of 
Rotrou's  dramas  in  the  National  Library  at  Paris,  5  vols.  4to.,  No.  5509. 

'  The  following  is  a  list  of  them  :  The  "  Hypocondriaque,  ou  le  Mort 
Amoureux,'^  a  tragi-comedy,  1628;  the  "Bague  de  l'Oubli,"  a  comedy, 
1628;  "  Cléagenor  et  Doristée,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1630;  "La  Diane,"  a 
comedy,  1630;  "Les  Occasions  Perdues,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1631;  "Les 
Ménechmes,"  a  comedy,  1632  ;  "  Hercule  Mourant,"  a  tragedy,  1632  ;  "  La 
Célimène,"  *  a  comedy,  1633  ;  "  La  Belle  Alphrède,"  a  comedy,  1634  ;  "  La 


*  Rotrou,  when  sketching  the  plan  of  this  piex-e,  intended  to  make  it  a  pastoral,  under 
the  name  of  "Amaryllis  ;"  but,  having  afterward  changed  his  opinion,  he  made  it  a  com- 
edy. Some  of  his  friends,  after  his  death,  found  the  sketch  of  this  pastoral,  and  gave  it 
to  Tristan,  who  finished  it,  and  had  it  performed,  in  1652,  at  the  Hôtel  de  Bourgogne, 
under  the  names  of  Rotrou  and  himself  { See  the  notice  at  the  beginning  of  the  "  Amaryllis," 
and  the  "Histoire  du  Théâtre  Français,"vol.  vii.  p.  328.)  Père  Niceron  includes"  Amar- 
yllis" among  Rotrou's  Works,  which  raises  their  number  to  thirty-six,  instead  of  thirty- 
Ave.  See  the  "  Mémoires  pour  sen-ir  à  l'Histoire  des  Hommes  illustres  dans  la  Rcpub- 
Uque  des  Lettres,"  vol,  xvi.  p.  93,  et  seq. 

-         N 


290  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

have  come  clown  to  us  from  his  pen,  the  unrestraint  of 
his  character,  and  his  fondness  for  pleasures,  probably 
allowed  his  interests  as  a  poet  only  a  moderate  share  in  a 
life  which  was  animated  by  tastes  and  feelings  of  another 
kind.  His  name  does  not  occur  in  connection  with  any 
of  the  literary  events  of  his  time;  and  we  very  seldom 
meet  with  it  in  those  anecdotical  collections  in  which 
several  of  his  contemporaries,  and  particularly  Ménage 
and  Segrais,  have  so  carefully  embalmed  a  multitude  of 
facts  and  names  which  seemed  destined,  by  their  insig- 
nificance, to  immediate  and  corriplete  oblivion.  We  pos- 
sess upon  Rotrou  none  of  those  eulogistic  or  epigram- 
matic poems  which  ordinarily  result  from  the  friendship 
of  men  of  letters,  and  in  which  this  period  was  more 
abundant  than  any  other.  All  we  know  of  him  leads  us 
to  believe  that,  living  in  peace  and  indifference  among 
his  colleagues,  Rotrou  enjoyed  undisturbed  a  reputation 
which  he  .took  no  pains  to  cultivate,  and  regarding  which 
the  general  silence  might  render  us  skeptical,  if  the  suc- 
cess which  Rotrou's  dramas  achieved  were  not  attested 


Pèlerine  Amoureuse,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1634;  "  Lc  Filandre,"  a  comedy, 
1635;  "  Agesilas  de  Colchos,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1635;  "L'Innocente  Infi- 
délité," a  tragi-comedy,  1636  ;  "La  Clorinde,"  a  comedy,  1635;  "Amélie," 
a  tragi-comedy,  1636;  "Les  Sosies,"  a  comedy,  1636;  "Les  Deux  Pucel- 
les,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1636;  "  Laure  persécutée,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1637; 
"Antigone,"  a  tragedy,  1638;  "Les  Captifs  de  Plante,  ou  les  Esclaves," 
a  comedy,  1638;  "Grisante,"  a  tragedy,  1639;  "Iphigénie  en  Aulide,"  a 
tragedy,  1640;  "Clarice,  ou  l'Amour  Constant,"  a  comedy,  1641;  "Béli- 
saire,"  a  tragedy,  1643  ;  "  Célie,  ou  le  Vice-Roi  de  Naples,"  a  comedy,  1645  ; 
"La  Sœur,"  a  comedy,  1645;  "Le  Véritable  Saint-Genest,"  a  tragedy, 
,  1646  ;  "  Dom  Bernard  de  Cabrère,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1647;  "  Venceslas," 
a  tragi-comedy,  1647;  "  Cosroës,"  a  tragedy,  1648;  "  La  Florimonde,"  a 
comedy,  1649  ;  and  "  Dom  Lopc  de  Cardonne,"  a  tragi-comedy,  1649. 

We  have  also  the  sketch  of  the  poetical  part  of  a  drama  on  the  "Birth  of 
Hercules,"  Kotrou's  last  work,  which  was  performed  at  the  Théâtre  du 
Marais,  and  printed  in  1649.  It  is  probably  a  liallet  of"  Amphitryon."  Sev- 
eral other  works,  which  were  never  either  performed  or  printed,  have  with 
out  authority  been  ascribed  to  him.  The  list  which  I  have  adopted  is  that 
given  in  the  "  Histoire  du  Theatre  Français,"  vol.  iv.  p.  410,  et  sec. 


JEAN  ROTROU.  291 

by  this  saying  of  Corneille:  "M.  Rotrou  and  I  could  gain 
a  subsistence  even  for  mountebanks."  ^  Whatever  power 
friendship  and  gratitude  may  have  exercised  over  Cor- 
neille, it  is  certain  that  nothing  but  the  force  of  truth 
could  have  led  him  to  say  :  "M.  Rotrou  and  I." 

In  order  to  justify  this  distinction,  we  must  not  expect 
to  find  in  Rotrou's  works,  with  the  exception  of  "  Ven- 
ceslas,"  those  novel  views,  and  that  particular  turn  of 
mind  which  were  manifested  even  in  Corneille's  earliest 
works,  and  announced  the  advent  of  an  original  genius, 
whose  vigor  would  make  way  for  itself  in  spite  of  the 
routine  formalism  of  the  time.  All  that  romantic  balder- 
dash which  then  filled  the  stage — abductions,  combats, 
recognitions,  and  imaginary  kingdoms^ — accidental  loves 
which  spring  up  precisely  when  it  is  necessary  to  embar- 
rass the  scene,  and  cease  as  soon  as  it  is  convenient  to 
bring  matters  to  a  conclusion — innumerable  and  immeas- 
urable kisses,  requested,  given,  and  returned  upon  the 
stage,  sometimes  accompanied  by  even  more  passionate 
caresses,'  and  followed  by  assignations,  the  intention  of 
which  is  not  in  the  slightest  degree  dissembled' — heroines 
embarrassed  by  the  consequences  of  their  weakness,  and 
running  all  over  the  world  in  search  of  the  perfidious 
lover  who  has  robbed  them  of  their  honor — these  are  the 
leading  characteristics  of  most  of  Rotrou's  plays  ;  these 
are  the  ordinary  inspirations  of  that  Muse  whom  he 
boasted  of  having  rendered  so  modest  that  "she  had  laid 
aside  her  profanity,  and  become  as  pious   as  a  nun.'" 

*  "  To  indicate,"  adds  Ménage,  "  that  the  public  would  not  have  failed  to 
come  to  the  performance  of  their  pieces,  even  if  they  had  been  badly  per- 
formed." "Menagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  306.  This  is  the  only  place  in  which  he 
mentions  Rotrou. 

^  See  the  "  Heureuse  Constance,"  in  which  a  Queen  of  Dalmatia  is  in- 
troduced. ^  See  "  La  Céliane." 

*  See  "Les  Occasions  Perdues." 

*  See  the  Dedicatory  Epistle  of  the  "  Bague  de  l'Oubli." 


292  CORNEILLE'S  COJ^TEMPORARIES. 

Corneille  alone  had  had  the  wisdom  to  banish  these  mo- 
notonous enormities  from  his  works.  Accordingly,  most 
of  Rotrou's  productions  must  be  classed  among  those 
ephemeral  essays  to  which  art  is  indebted  neither  for  dis- 
coveries nor  progress  ;  but,  in  his  time,  they  may  have 
been  remark  ible,  among  those  honored  with  constant 
applause,  for  greater  truthfulness  of  tone,  less  dullness  of 
invention,  and  a  more  witty  and  elevated  style.  True 
comic  power  is  sometimes  perceptible  in  them,  at  least  in 
the  dialogues.  One  of  Rotrou's  pieces,  "  La  Sœur,"  con- 
tains a  scene  almost  exactly  similar  to  one  in  the  "  Four- 
beries de  Sea  pin,"  and  furnished  Molière  with  several  of 
the  ideas  which  he  has  introduced  into  his  "  Bourgeois 
G-entilhomrae," — if  Molière  and  Rotrou  were  not  both 
equally  indebted  for  them  to  some  Italian  play,  as  we 
may  suppose  from  the  scene  of  the  action  being  laid  at 
Nola,  in  Campania^  from  most  of  the  names  being  Italian, 
from  the  style  of  the  plot,  and  especially  from  the  gayety 
of  several  scenes — a  gayety  which  Rotrou  never  attained 
except  in  his  imitations.  Anselme,  the  old  dupe,  has 
been  engaged  for  fifteen  years  in  searching  for  his  wife 
and  daughter,  w^ho  had  been  captured  at  sea  by  a  corsair  ; 
and  learning  that  they  have  been  sold  into  slavery  at  Con- 
stantinople, he  sends  his  son  Lelio  thither  with  money  to 
ransom  them.  On  the  road,  Lelio  falls  in  love  with  a 
pretty  maid-servant  at  an  inn  ;  and,  instead  of  continuing 
his  journey,  marries  his  mistress,  takes  her  home  with 
him  and  introduces  her  to  his  father  as  his  sister,  declar- 
ing at  the  same  time  that  his*  mother  is  dead.  Anselme, 
displeased  at  the  excessive  affection  which  the  brother 
and  sister  manifest  for  each  other,  complains  of  it  to  the 
valet,  who  throws  the  whole  blame  on  the  journey  to 
Turkey,  which,  he  says,  is  a  most  dangerous  country  for 
young  folks  to  visit  : 


JEAN  ROTROU.  293 

"  Car  les  Turcs,  comme  on  sait,  sont  fort  mauvais  chrétiens  ; 
Les  livres  en  ce  lieu  n'entrent  point  en  commerce  ; 
En  aucun  art  illustre  aucun  d'eux  ne  s'exerce  ; 
Et  l'on  y  tient  quiconque  est  autre  qu'ignorant, 
Pour  Calai  a  mer  hi  s,  qui  sont  gens  de  néant. 


Plus  jaloux  de  sa  sœur  qu'on  n'est  d'une  maitresse, 
Jamais  il  ne  la  quitte  ;  ils  se  parlent  sans  cesse, 
Me  raillent,  se  font  signe,  et  se  moquant  de  moi. 
Ne  s'aperçoivent  pas  que  je  m'en  aperçois 

ERGASTE. 

Là,  chacun  à  gausser  librement  se  dispense  ; 
La  raillerie  est  libre  et  n'est  point  une  offense  ; 
Et,  si  je  m'en  souviens,  on  appelle  en  ces  lieux 
Urchcc,  ou  gens  d'esprit,  ceux  qui  raillent  le  mieux. 


Ils  en  usent  pour  Noie  avec  trop  de  licence  ; 

Et  quoique  leur  amour  ait  beaucoup  d'innocence. 

Je  ne  puis  approuver  ces  baisers  assidus 

D'une  ardeur  mutuelle  et  donnés  et  rendus. 

Ces  discours  à  l'oreille,  et  ces  tendres  caresses, 

Plus  dignes  passe-temps  d'amans  et  de  maîtresses, 

Qu'ils  ne  sont  en  ell'et  d'un  frère  et  d'une  sœur. 

ERGASTE.  •         '       '*■- 

La  loi  de  Mahomet,  par  une  charge  expresse,  '^       ' 

Enjoint  ces  sentiments  d'amour  et  de  tendresse, 

Que  le  sang  justifie  et  semble  autoriser  ;  _     • 

Mais  le  temps  les  pourra  démahométiser.  "  '  '  ' 

Ils  appellent  liihalch  cette  ardeur  fraternelle, 

Ou  boram,  qui  veut  dire  intime  et  mutuelle." 

This  impudence  on  the  part  of  a  knavish  valet  is  quite 
in  the  style  of  Molière's  Scapin.  The  idea  of  the  scene 
in  the  "  Bourgeois  Grentilhomme"  is  precisely  identical 
with  that  in  which  the  valet  Ergaste,  whose  falsehoods 
are  beginning  to  he  discovered,  calls,  as  a  witness  to  the 
truth  of  all  he  has  said,  a  young  man,  who,  having  been 
brought  up  at  Constantinople,  knows  no  other  language 
than  real  Turkish  :  ••'  / 

"  II  n'entend  pas  la  langue  et  ne  peut  te  répondre," 


294  CORNEII-LE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

says  Anselme.  "  I'll  speak  to  him  in  Turkish,"  says 
Ergaste  ;  and  he  begins  to  repeat  his  counterfeit  Turkish. 
The  young  man,  who  can  not  understand  a  word  he  says, 
expresses  his  embarrassment  in  answers,  which  Anselme 
does  not  comprehend,  but  which  Ergaste  does  not  fail  to 
interpret  to  him  in  a  most,  satisfactory  manner.  One  of 
these  answers  contains  only  two  words — vare-hece  ;  Er- 
gaste pretends  that  they  are  equivalent  in  meaning  to  a 
long  phrase,  with  which  he  finds  it  necessary  to  termin- 
ate the  conversation  : 

"  T'en  a-t-il  pu  tant  dire  en  si  peu  de  propos  V 

Anselme  inquires  ;  and  Ergaste  coolly  replies  : 

"  Oui,  le  langage  turc  dit  beaucoup  en  deux  mots."' 

The  vare-hece  in  this  passage  is  clearly  the  bel-men  of 
Molière.' 

The  author  of  the  "  Métromanie"  may  also  have  bor- 
rowed somewhat  from  the  scene  in  which  Anselme's  wife, 
on  her  return  from  Constantinople,  being  informed,  be- 
fore she  has  seen  her  husband,  of  the  state  of  her  son's 
affections,  promises  to  promote  his  wishes  by  feigning  to 
recognize  as  her  daughter  the  young  girl  whom  Lelio  has 
passed  off  as  his  sister.  Indeed,  when  that  young  lady 
is  presented  to  her,  her  transports  of  delight  are  so  ex- 
ceedingly natural  that  Lelio  and  his  valet,  surprised  at 
the  talent  with  which  she  has  performed  her  part,  pay 

'  Rotrou,  "  La  Sœur,"  act  iii.  scene  5. 

^  See  the  "  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,"  act  iv.  scene  6. 

"  Cleante. — Bel-men. 

"  CoviELi.E. — He  says  you  must  go  quickly  with  him  to  prepare  yourself 
for  the  ceremony,  in  order  to  see  your  daughter  afterward,  and  to  conclude 
the  marriage. 

"  M.  Jourdain. — Did  he  say  all  that  in  two  words'! 

"  CoviELLË. — Yes  ;  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  Turkish  language,  that  it 
expresses  a  great  deal  in  few  words." 


JEAJSr  ROTROU.  295 

her  almost  the  same  compliments  as  Francaleu  pays  to 
Baliveau,  in  the  "  Métromanie." 

"Je  n'en  fais  point  le  fin,  j'en  prendrois  des  leçons,"'' 

says  Ergaste  ;  and  Constance  puts  an  end  to  their  admi- 
ration only  by  informing  them  that  her  transparts  of  joy 
and  surprise  were  real,  and  that  Lelio's  wife  is  actually 
her  daughter,  whom  she  believed  lost.  The  author,  as 
will  readily  be  imagined,  does  not  fail  to  set  things  in 
order  by  means  of  further  explanations  ;  and  Lelio  is 
saved  th&  misfortune  of  an  incestuous  love  and  marriage. 
The  plot  of  this  piece  is  as  bad  as  its  details  are  some- 
times humorous;  but  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  these 
details  rightfully  belong  to  the  author  of  "  Célimène,"  "  Cé- 
liane,"  "  Clorinde,"  and  a  host  of  other  pieces  equally  dull. 
Rotrou  was  always  more  successful  in  his  imitations 
than  in  his  original  works.  He  had  the  good  taste  to 
seek  occasional  models  among  the  ancient  writers,  whose 
merits  he  appreciated,  even  if  he  were  not  fully  conscious 
of  the  whole  advantage  that  might  be  derived  from  them 
by  men  of  genius  superior  to  his  own.  I  would  not 
vouch  for  it  that  he  always  went  back  to  these  models 
themselves  ;  for  it  is  difficult  to  believe  in  the  classic 
erudition  of  a  man  who,  in  "  Iphi génie  en  Aulide,"  re- 
presents Ulysses  challenging  Achilles  to  fight  a  duel,' 

'  Rotrou.  "  La  Sœur,"  act  iv.  scene  5.     Francaleu,  astonished  in  a  sim- 
ilar manner  at  the  expression  of  surprise  manifested  on  Baliveau's  counte- 
nance when  he  unexpectedly  meets  his  nephew,  says  to  Damis  ; 
"  Monsieur  l'homme  accompli,  qui  du  moins  croyez  l'être, 
Prenez,  prenez  leçon,  car  voilà  votre  maitre." 
But  m  the  "  Métromanie,"  the  effect,  which  is  prepared  beforehand  by  the 
knowledge  possessed  by  the  audience  of  the   respective  positions   of  the 
characters,  is  far  more  complete  and  comic. 

'    "  Achille. — S'agissant  de  se  battre,  Ulysse  est  toujours  lent. 
Ulysse. — Vous  ne  m'en  prîrez  point  que  je  n'y  satisfasse. 
Achille. — Demeurons  donc  d'accord  de  l'heure  et  de  la  place." 

Rolrou,  "  Iphigénie,"  act  v.  scene  3. 


296  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

and  whose  other  works  give  proof  of  even  stranger  ignor- 
ance.' The  dramatic  poets  of  antiquity  had  already  been 
translated  into  French,  and  Sforza  d'Oddi,  an  Italian  au- 
thor, from  whom  Rotrou  has  imitated  a  comedy,^  and 
whom  he  praises  for  his  imitations  of  "  Plautus,"  '  might 
probably  have  assisted  him  in  the  production  of  the  "  So- 
sies" and  the  "  Ménechmes." 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  obligations  which  Molière 's 
"  Amphitryon"  was  under  to  Rotrou's  "  Sosies  ;"  but 
little  attention  has  been  given  to  the  fact  that  the  leading 
features  of  resemblance  between  the  two  works  are  all  to 
be  found  in  the  original  of  Plautus.  That  which  Molière 
may  have  borrowed  from  Rotrou,  or,  like  him,  from  some 
more  modern  author,  is  contained  within  the  limits  of  two 
or  three  lines,"*  and  the  idea  of  the  scene  in  which  Mercury 
drives  Sosie  out  of  the  house,  when  he  comes  in  to  dine. 
In  the  remainder  of  the  piece  Rotrou  implicitly  follows 

'  Thus,  in  "  La  Sœur,"  old  Geronte,  returning  from  his  captivity  among 
the  Turks  at  Constantinople,  speaks  to  Anselme  about  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Sophia — 

" où  les  Chrétiens  s'assemblent, 

Pour  l'office  divin  qui  s'y  fait  avec  soin." 
'  His  comedy  of  "  Clarice."  ■      ^  See  the  Preface  to  "  Clarice." 

''  Such  as  this  line  from  "Ijes  Sosies,"  act  iv.  scene  2  : 

"  Si  l'on  mangeait  des  yeux,  il  m'auroit  dévoré." 
Which  Molière  thus  renders,  in  his  "  Amphitryon,"  act  iii.  scene  2  : 
"  Si  des  regards  on  pouvait  mordre, 
Il  m'auroit  déjà  dévoré." 
And  this  line,  which  Rotrou  puts  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  captains  in- 
vited by  Jupiter  in  the  name  of  Amphitryon  : 

"  Point,  point  d'Amphitryon  où  l'on  ne  dîne  point," 
is  placed  by  Molière  much  more  suitably  in  the  mouth  of  Sosie  : 
"  Le  véritable  Amphitryon 
Est  l'Amphitryon  où  l'on  dîne." 
This  reflection  of  Molière's  Sosie  : 

"  Le  seigneur  Jupiter  sait  dorer  la  pilule," 
is  also  imitated  from  the  following  remark  of  Rotrou's  Sosie,  as  it  does  not 
occur  in  Plautus  ; 

"  On  appelle  cela  lui  sucrer  le  breuvage." 


JEAN  ROTROtr.  297 

the  Latin  poet,  omitting  some  details  which  would  be 
uninteresting  to  modern  ears,  and  rendering,  in  a  very 
humorous  manner,  those  parts  which  were  Irkely  to  suit 
an  audience  in  the  seventeenth  century.  But  he  does 
not,  like  Molière,  make  them  his  own  by  that  lively  and 
natural  style  of  wit,  and  those  happy  additions,  which 
have  raised  -'Amphitryon"  to  the  rank  of  an  original 
work,  and  assigned  it  a  permanent  position  in  the  French 
drama.  Rotrou  was  satisfied  with  translating  with  con- 
siderable taste  that  which  Molière  afterward  imitated 
with  consummate  genius. 

The  translated  comedy  of  the  "  Ménèchmes,"  in  which 
Rotrou  has  transformed  the  courtesan  Erotime  into  a 
coquettish,  but  virtuous  young  widow,  leads  us,  less  even 
than  the  "  Sosies,"  to  anticipate  all  that  Regnard  derived 
at  a  later  period  from  such  a  subjects 

The  ancient  tragedies  which  were  imitated  by  Rotrou 
indicate,  like  his  comedies,  that  he  possessed  talent  which 
stood  in  need  of  support,  but  which,  at  all  events,  could 
make  the  best  use  of  the  helps  to  which  it  had  recourse. 
We  must  not  expect  to  find  them  characterized  by  the 
art  of  composition- — an  art  which,  at  that  period,  was 
understood  by  Corneille  alone.  Rotrou's  "  Iphigénie  en 
Aulide"  is,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  scenes,  an  exact 
imitation  of  Euripides'  play  of  the  same  name.  His 
"  Hercule  Mourant"  is  the  "  Hercules  Œtœus"  of  Seneca, 
to  which  Rotrou  has  merely  added  the  episode  of  the 
loves  of  lole  and  a  young  prince  named  Areas,  which 
forms  the  subject  of  the  fifth  act.  And  his  "  Antigone," 
which  is  composed  from  the  "  Phœnissae"  of  Euripides, 
the  "  Thebais"  of  Seneca,  and  the  "Antigone"  of  Sopho- 
cles, contains  two  tragedies  within  the  space  of  one.  But, 
in  these  three  works,  Rotrou  is  entitled  to  the  merit  of 
ncrt  having  excessively  disfigured  the  ancients  by  that 


298  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

triviality  of  language  which  his  contemporaries  mingled 
with  the  most  ridiculous  pomposity.  If  he  has  not  very 
successfully  imitated  the  simplicity  of  Sophocles,  he  has 
at  least  frequently  diminished  the  inflation  of  Seneca  : 
and  several  passages  which  have  been  most  happily 
rendered,  place  Rotrou  above  the  ordinary  level  of  the 
authors  of  his  time.  In  Seneca's  "  Hercules  Œtœus" 
the  hero,  overcome  by  pain,  implores  the  aid  of  Jupiter 
for  the  first  time  ;  and  thus  begs  him  to  grant  him 
death  : 

" Tot  feras  vici  horridas, 

Reges,  tyrannos  ;  non  tamen  vultus  meos 
In  astra  torsi  ;  semper  haec  nobis  manus 
Votum  spopondit  ;  nulla,  propter  me,  sacro 
Micuêre  cœlo  fulmina '" 

Rotrou  extends  this  idea  as  follows  : 

"  J'ai  toujours  dû  ma  vie  à  ma  seule  défense, 
Et  je  n'ai  point  encore  imploré  ta  puissance  ; 
Quand  les  tètes  de  Thydre  ont  fait  entre  mes  bras 
Cent  replis  tortueux,  je  ne  te  priois  pas  ; 
Quand  j'ai  dans  les  enfers  affronté  la  Mort  même, 
Je  n'ai  point  réclamé  ta  puissance  suprême  ;'^ 
J'ai  de  monstres  divers  purgé  chaque  élément 
Sans  jeter  vers  le  ciel  un  regard  seulement  ; 
Mon  bras  fut  mon  secours  ;  et  jamais  le  tonnerre 
N'a,  quand  j'ai  combattu,  grondé  contre  la  terre. "^ 

By  slightly  diminishing  the  quickness  of  Seneca's  move- 
ment, Rotrou  has  introduced  into  the  piece  some  fine 
imagery. 

In   the    "Antigone,"   that   princess   beholds   from    the 
ramparts  of  the  town  her  brother  Polynices,  from  whom 

'   Seneca,  "  Hercules  Œtœus,"  lines  1295-1299. 

^  Racine,  in  "  Phèdre,"  act  iv.  scene  2,  has  imitated  this  piece,  and  par- 
ticularly these  two  lines  of  Rotrou  : 

"  Dans  les  longues  rigueurs  d"une  prison  cruelle, 
Je  n'ai  point  imploré  ta  puissnncc  immoitello." 
*  Rotrou,  "  Hc'rclilc  MtAimnt,''  act  iii.  cfc'c^'c  2. 


JEAN  ROTROU.  299 

she  has  been  separated  for  a  year,  and  thus  addresses 
him: 

"  Polynicc,  avancez,  portez  ici  la  vue  ; 
Souffrez  qu'après  un  an  votre  sœur  vous  salue  ; 
Malheureuse  !  et  pourquoi  ne  le  {)uls-je  autrement  1 
Quel  destin  entre  nous  met  cet  éloignement  1 
Après  un  si  long  temps  la  sœur  revoit  son  frère. 
Et  ne  peut  lui  donner  le  salut  ordinaire  ; 
Un  seul  embrassement  ne  nous  est  pas  permis  ; 
Nous  parlons  séparés  comme  deux  ennemis."' 

This  touching  passage  is  not  an  imitation. 

The  "  Iphigénie"  also  contains  some  ideas  which  prop- 
erly belong  to  Rotrou,  and  which  Racine  has  not  disdain- 
ed to  imitate.^  "We  do  not,  however,  yet  discover  the 
presence  of  that  talent  which  leaves  traces  of  itself,  be- 
cause it  follows  in  no  one's  footsteps  ;  and  Rotrou  was 
not  yet  aware  of  the  style  of  composition  best  suited  for 
the  display  of  his  powers.  "  Bélisaire,"  a  drama  in  which 
he  had  attempted  to  impart  to  tragedy  the  tone  assigned 
to  it  by  Corneille,  is  perhaps  one  of  his  worst  works.  At 
length,  however,  he  met  with  the  subject  of  "  Venceslas." 

'  Rotrou,  "  Antigone,"  act  ii.  scene  2. 

*  Among  others,  these  lines,  which  do  not  occur  in  Euripides,  in  whose 
tragedy  Clytemnestra  speaks  only  with  respect  of  the  blood  of  Atreus  : 
"  Va,  père  indigne  d'elle,  et  digne  fils  d'Atrée, 
Par  qui  la  loi  du  sang  fut  si  peu  révérée, 
Et  qui  crut  comme  toi  faire  un  exploit  fameux, 
Au  repas  qu'il  dressa  des  corps  de  ses  neveux." — 

Rotrou,  "  Iphigénie  en  Aulide,"  act  iv.  scene  4. 
"  Vous  ne  démentez  point  une  race  funeste  ; 
Oui,  vous  êtes  du  sang  d'Atrée  et  de  Thyeste  : 
Bourreau  de  votre  fille,  il  ne  vous  reste  enfin 
Que  d'en  faire  à  sa  mère  un  horrible  festin." 

Racine,  "  Iphigénie,"  act  iv.  scene  4. 

The  equivocal  and  ironical  answers  which  Racine  puts  at  first  into  the 
mouth  of  Clytemnestra,  when  Agamemnon  demands  of  her  her  daughter, 
are  not  copied  from  Euripides.  In  Rotrou,  it  is  Iphigenia  who  begins  the 
scene  with  her  father  by  a  dialogue  of  this  kind  ;  which  is  much  less  be- 
coming.— See  Rotrou,  "Iphigénie,"  act  iv.  serene  2;  and  A'actwe,  "Iphi- 
génie," act  iv.  scenes  3,  4^ 


300  COUNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

This  subject  does  not  belong  to  him  he  ;  borrowed  it  of 
Don  Francisco  de  Roxas/  just  as  Corneille  had  borrowed 
the  "  Cid"  from  G-uillen  de  Castro,  We  consequently 
find  in  "  Venceslas,"  as  in  the  "  Cid,"  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  fine  lines  which  have  been  copied  froiTi  the  Spanish 
original.  We  find  even  more  than  this  ;  for  whole  pas- 
sages, and  the  arrangement  of  the  scenes,  are  exactly  the 
same  in  each.  The  entrance  is  the  same,  and  so  is  the 
dénouement,  except  that,  in  the  Spanish  piece,  Ladislas 
says  nothing  more  "  about  his  love  for  Cassandra,  who 
requests  and  obtains  permission  to  retire  to  her  estates. 
Rotrou,  led -astray  by  the  denouement  oî  the  "  Cid,"  did 
not  remark  the  difference  of  the  circumstances  in  the 
two  dramas.  He  did  not  feel  that  the  spectator,  though 
delighted  to  behold,  at  least  in  hope,  Rodrigue's  inno- 
cent and  reciprocated  affection  crowned  with  success, 
is,  on  the  contrary,  revolted  by  the  idea  that  the  guilty 
Ladislas  may  one  day  obtain,  as  the  rewaïd  of  his  furi- 
ous passion,  the  hand  of  a  woman  who  hates  him,  and 
whom  he  has  just  given  so  many  fresh  causes  to  detest 
him.^     Reflection  had  not  yet  taught  dramatic  authors 

'  The  original  piece  by  Francisco  de  Roxas  is  to  be  found  in  the  Nation- 
al Library  at  Paris,  No.  6380,  B.  Its  title  is  :  "  No  ay  ser  Padre  siendo 
Re,"  the  literal  translation  of  which  is,  There  is  ito  being  a  Father,  while 
you  arc  a  King. 

^  Mariiiontel,  among  other  corrections  which  he  introduced  into  Rotrou's 
tragedv,  was  desirous  to  alter  the  denouement,  ;  in  the  last  scene,  therefore, 
when  Ladislas  said  to  Cassandra  : 

"  Ma  grâce  est  en  vos  mains." 

"  Voilà  donc  ton  supplice  !" 
she  immediately  replied,  stabbing  him  to  the  heart.  This  dénoiiement,  which 
is  in  greater  conformity  to  theatrical  effect  than  to  truth,  is  out  of  all  har- 
mony with  the  modern  tone  which  prevails  throughout  the  piece.  Never- 
theless, Marmontel's  corrections  were  approved  by  the  Maréchal  de  Duras, 
one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  bedchamber,  and  as  such  intrusted  with  the 
theatrical  arrangements  of  the  Court.  He  wished  to  have  this  corrected 
edition  of  "  Vcnecslns"  performed  at  Versailles,  and  ordered  Lekain  to 
learn  his  part  according  to  the  new  arrangement.  Lekain,  who  did  not  like 
Manuontol  made  as  many  objections  as  he  dared  ;  but  the  Marshal  Sj^ke  ao 


JEAN  ROTROU.  301 

how  greatly  difference  of  feeling  changes  the  moral  effect 
of  two  actions  apparently  similar.  With  this  exception, 
the  Spanish  piece  contains  the  principal  features  of  the 
last  act  of  "  Venceslas  ;'"  and  it  is  only  in  the  plot  of  the 
drama,  and  in  the  circumstances  which  lead  to  the  ca- 
tastrophe, that  Rotrou  has  departed  to  any  great  extent 
from  his  original.  In  the  work  of  Roxas,  Prince  Roger 
(the  Ladisias  of  the  French  piece)  does  not  appear  to 
have  any  intention  to  marry  Cassandra  ;  but  feeling 
great  love  for  her,  and  correspondingly  great  jealousy  of 
the  duke,  whom  he  regards  as  his  rival,  he  is  not  very 
delicate  as  to  the  means  which  he  employs  to  rob  him  of 
his  mistress.  Those  dishonorable  attempts  which  Ro- 
trou has  placed  in  the  introduction  to  his  play,  although 
Cassandra  reminds  us  of  them  rather  too  frequently  and 
too  energetically, '■'  are  put  into  practice  by  the  Spanish 
author.     Roger  forms  a  plan  for  introducing  himself  by 

positively  that  he  was  forced  at  least  to  feif^n  submission.  He,  however, 
applied  secretly  to  Colardeau  for  other  corrections,  which  he  substituted  in 
the  place  of  those  by  Marmontel.  "  Venceslas,"  thus  performed,  met  with 
great  success  at  Court,  and  the  Marshal,  who  had  not  perceived  the  sub- 
stitution, was  highly  delighted  at  the  happy  result  of  his  firmness.  "TheFC 
is  reason,  however,  to  believe  that  the  trick  was  speedily  discovered,  Marr 
montel  himself  informs  us  that  his  "  Venceslas"  was  performed  at  Court 
and  in  Paris,  but  that  the  Court  alone  approved  of  the  new  dénouement, 
whereas  it  displeased  the  Parisian  public  ;  which  obliged  him  to  abandon  it 
and  return  to  the  old  one.  See  the  "  Chcfs-d'œuvres  dramatiques,"  Ex- 
amination of  "Venceslas  :"  Paris,  1773.  All  the  corrections  have  since 
been  abandoned,  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  expressions,  the  "  Ven- 
ceslas" performed  at  the  present  day  is  entirely  Rotrou's  own. 

'  With  the  exception  only  of  a  few,  among  which  is  this  fine  line  of  Ven-  ' 
ceslas,  when  he  learns  that  the  revolted  populace  intend  to  force  him  to  re- 
voke the  sentence  of  Ladisias  : 

"  Et  me  vouloir  injuste  est  ne  me  vouloir  plus." 
There  will  also  be  observed,  in  the  French  imitation,  a  livelier  and  closer 
turn  of  style  than  in  the  Spanish  author.     The  piece  is,  on  the  whole,  bet- 
ter adapted  to  produce  an  efi^ect  upon  the  Trench  stage,  the  spectators  of 
which  like  to  see  a  thought  included  within  a  single  line. 

^  "  Foul  desires,"  "  unclean  pleasures."  "  free  conversations,"  "  infamous 
messages,"  arc  expressions  used  far  to  familiarly  by  Cassandja,  and  "whicli 
are  lîflw  omitfoU  in  thfe  performance  of  the  psdce.  •      •    .. 


302  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPOEARIES. 

night  into  the  chamber  of  his  mistress  ;  but  Cassandra, 
being  informed  of  this  design,  communicates  it  to  the 
king,  that  his  authority  may  deliver  her  from  Roger's 
persecutions.  When  Roger  arrives,  he  finds  Cassandra 
alone  in  a  room,  and  before  she  is  able  to  recognize  him 
he  puts  out  the  light,  and  prepares  to  use  any  violence 
that  may.  be  necessary  for  the  accomplishment  of  his 
desires.  But  Cassandra  in  alarm  has  escaped  from  the 
room  under  favor  of  the  darkness,  and  left  the  prince  tète- 
à4ètc  with  the  chair  on  which  she  had  been  sitting,  and 
where  he  is  greatly  astonished  to  find  her  no  longer. 
While  he  is  looking  for  her,  arrives  Prince  Alexander,' 
who  is  secretly  married  to  Cassandra,  and  who,  having 
been  absent  from  Court  for  a  whole  month,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  quarrel  with  his  brother,  has  come,  under 
cover  of  night,  to  see  his  wife.  The  two  brothers  meet  ; 
the  king  arrives  ;  they  conceal  themselves  ;  and.  this 
adventure  produces  an  imbroglio,  the  result  of  which  is 
to  persuade  the  prince  that  the  duke  is  the  husband  of 
Cassandra.  Furious  with  rage,  he  introduces  himself  a 
second  time  into  her  chamber,  finds  her  asleep  in  the 
arms  of  Alexander,  whom  he  kills  without  recognizing 
him  or  waking  him  from  his  sleep.  Cassandra,  on  open- 
ing her  eyes,  finds  her  husband  dead  and  the  dagger  left 
in  the  wound  reveals  to  her  the  name  of  the  murderer. 
Such  are  the  incidents  upon  which  the  Spanish  play  is 
founded,  eked  out  by  the  witticisms  of  some  valets  and 
the  bombastic  descriptions  of  the  prince. 

Corneille  had  taught  the  poets  of  France  that  such 
means  were  not  admissible  into  true  tragedy.  Those 
devised  by  Rotrou  are  not  much  better;  and  the  idea 
upon  which  the  whole  plot  of  the  piece  hangs,  namely 

'  Whom  tho  Spanish  author,  and  Rotrou  after  liiin,  call  the  Infante 
Alcxanflbr.     Rotrou  also  introduced  an  Infante  Théddorc  into  this  play. 


JEAN  EOTROU.  303 

the  promise  which  the  king  has  made  to  the  duke  to 
grant  him  the  first  favor  he  may  asic,  whatever  that  may 
be,  is  a  very  bad  spring  of  action,'  It  may  also  be  said 
"that  the  fury  of  Ladislas,  who  twice  silences  the  duke 
just  when  he  was  about  to  declare  his  love  for  the  Prin- 
cess Théodore,  is  a  very  puerile  trick  to  prolong  the  mis- 
understanding which  leads  to  the  catastrophe. 

If  Rotrou  could  lay  claim,  in  "  Venceslas,"  to  nothing 
more  than  these  puerile  inventions,  it  would  not  be  worth 
our  while  to  inquire  how  far  they  may  be  said  to  belong 
to  him  ;  but  the  character  of  Ladislas — so  fiery  and  im- 
petuous, so  interesting  even  on  account  of  the  violence  of 
those  passions  which  render  it  dangerous  and  criminal — 
Rotrou  has  appropriated  to  himself  by  developing  it  in 
its  full  proportions.  The  Spanish  author  has  exhibited 
Roger's  pride  only  in  his  hatred  of  the  duke  and  of  his 
brother  ;  he  has  manifested  the  vehemence  of  his  love 
only  by  the  impetuosity  of  his  desires,  and  the  fury  of  his 
jealousy  by  the  crime  which  it  leads  him  to  commit  ;  he 
has  also  represented  him  as  much  more  harsh  in  his 
treatment  of  his  father,  and  has  never  displayed  in  him 
any  thing  but  the  ferocity  of  an  indomitable  character, 
without  mingling  with  it  that  tenderness  of  passion 
which  supplies  the  means  of  moderating  its  violence,  and, 
to  use  the  expression  of  Venceslas, 

"Malgré  tous  ses  défauts  le  rend  encore  aimable." 

Rotrou  was  fully  aware  of  the  storms  and  conflicts 
which  a  despised  and  jealous  love  could  not  fail  to  excite 
in  so  haughty,  so  brilliant,  and  so  imperious  a  nature; 
and  he  has  represented  its  transports,  weaknesses,  and 

'  The  same  idea  is  employed  in  "  Don  Lope  de  (Pardonne,''  Rotrou's  last 
work,  which  is  very  similar  in  other  respects  to  '"  Venceslas  ;""  which  simi- 
larity leads  me  to  believe  that  Rotrou  bdrroWe'd  this  romantic  im'enticJn  also 
frcftn  the  ëpïmish  dfama. 


304  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

vicissitudes  with  a  truthfulness  previously  unknown  to 
our  drama.  Corneille  had  depicted  love  in  conflict  with 
duty  ;  but  love  had  not  yet  been  seen  in  conflict  with  it- 
self, tormented  by  its  own  violence,  alternately  suppliant 
and  furious,  and  manifesting  itself  as  much  by  excess  of 
anger  as  by  excess  of  tenderness.  Granting  some  slight 
indulgence  to  those  déficiences  in  propriety  and  faults 
of  style  which  are  characteristic  of  the  authors  of  this 
period,  where  shall  we  find  a  more  faithful  picture  of 
the  vicissitudes  of  passion  than  in  the  ^cene  in  which 
Ladislas,  stung  to  the  quick  by  Cassandra's  contempt, 
swears  that  his  love  for  her  is  changing  into  hatred  ? 

"  Allez,  indigne  objet  de  mon  inquiétude  ; 
J'ai  trop  longtemps  souffert  de  votre  ingratitude  ; 
Je  devois  vous  connoître,  et  ne  m'engager  pas 
Aux  trompeuses  douceurs  de  vos  cruels  appas. 


De  vos  superbes  lois  ma  raison  dégagée 
A  guéri  mon  amour,  et  croit  l'avoir  songée. 
De  l'indigne  brasier  qui  consumoit  mon  cœur, 
Il  ne  ?iie  reste  plus  que  la  seule  rougeur, 
Que  la  honte  et  l'horreur  de  vous  avoir  aimée 
Laisseront  à  jamais  sur  ce  front  imprimée. 
Oui,  je  rougis,  ingrate,  et  mon  propre  courroux 
Ne  jne  peut  pardonner  ce  que  j'ai  fait  pour  vous. 
Je  veux  que  la  mémoire  efface  de  ma  vie 
Le  souvenir  du  temps  que  je  vous  ai  servie. 
J'étois  mort  pour  la  gloire,  et  je  n'ai  pas  vécu 
Tant  que  ce  lâche  cœur  s'est  dit  votre  vaincu. 
Ce  n'est  que  d'aujourd'hui  qu'il  vit  et  qu'il  respire. 
D'aujourd'hui  qu'il  renonce  au  joug  de  votre  empire. 
Et  qu'avec  ma  raison,  mes  yeux  et  lui  d'accord 
Détestent  votre  vue  à  l'égal  de  la  mort." 

After  a  haughty  reply,  Cassandra  retires  ;  upon  which 
Ladislas,  in  despair,  conjures  his  sister  to  call  her  back  : 

"  Ma  sœur,  au  nom  d'amour,  et  par  pitié  des  larmes 
Que  ce  cœur  enchanté  donne  encore  à  ses  charmes, 
Si  vous  voulez  d'un  frère  empêcher  le  trépas, 
Suivez  cette  insensible  et  retenez  ses  pas. 

THÉODOKE. 

La  retenir,  mon  frCrc,  .ipnTs  l'avoir  bannie  î 


JEAN  ROTROU.  305 

LADISLAS. 

Ah  !  contre  ma  raison  servez  sa  tyrannie  ! 
Je  veux  désavouer  ce  cœur  séditieux, 
La  servir,  l'adorer,  et  mourir  à  ses  yeux. 

Que  je  la  voie  au  moins  si  jo  ne  la  possède  ; 
Mon  mal  chérit  sa  cause  et  voit  peu  son  remède. 
Quand  mon  cœur  à  ma  voix  a  feint  de  consentir, 
Il  en  étoit  charmé  ;  je  l'en  veux  démentir  ; 
Je  mourois,  je  brûlois,  je  l'adorois  dans  l'âme, 
Et  le  ciel  a  pour  moi  fait  un  sort  tout  de  flamme." 

His  sister,  in  compliance  with  his  request,  is  about  to 
go  in  search  of  Cassandra,  when  he  exclaims — 

"  Me  laissez-vous,  ma  sœur,  en  ce  désordre  extrême  ! 

THÉODORE.  ■,    .- 

J'allois  la  retenir. 

LADISLAS. 

Eh  !  ne  voyez-vous  pas 
Quel  arrogant  mépris  précipite  ses  pas  ! 
Avec  combien  d'orgueil  elle  s'est  retirée  1 
Quel  implacable  haine  elle  m'a  déclarée  V 

When  at  last  his  vexation  has  gained  the  ascendency  ; 
when  Ladislas  has  determined  to  subdue  his  own  feel- 
ings even  so  far  as  to  promote  the  interests  of  the  diike 
with  his  mistress  ;  when  he  has  encouraged  him  to  ex- 
plain to  the  king  the  nature  of  the  favor  to  which  ho 
aspires,  and  which,  in  the  opinion  of  Ladislas,  can  be 
nothing  else  than  the  hand  of  Cassandra, — at  the  very 
moment  when  the  fatal  name  is  about  to  be  pronounced, 
incapable  of  further  self-restraint,  and  falling  once  more 
under  the  sway  of  his  love  and  jealousy,  Ladislas  gives 
utterance  at  length  to  the  transports  which  he  had  vainly 
attempted  to  repress,  and  interrupting  the  duke  for  the 
second  time,  forces  him  to  resume  that  silence  which  he 
had  previously  urged  him  so  strenuously  to  break.  As  I 
have  already  observed,  this  repeated  interruption  is  only 
a  defective  means  of  prolonging  a  necessary  misapprehen- 


306  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

sion.  It  is  undoubtedly  of  great  importance  .to  Ladislas 
that  the  duke  should  not  prefer  his  request,  as  the  king 
would  at  once  grant  that  which  he  besought  ;  but  this  ro- 
mantic combination  can  not  be  sufficiently  kept  in  mind 
by  the  spectator,  nor  is  it  likely  to  strike  him  so  forcibly 
as  to  lead  him  to  excuse  the  puerility,  and  at  the  same 
time,  the  brutality  of  the  movement.  This  movement  is 
nevertheless 'brought  about  in  a  very  natural  manner; 
and  if  the  passion  of  Ladislas  had  only  been  portrayed 
under  another  form,  it  would  most  certainly  have  pro- 
duced a  very  powerful  effect. 

Other  déficiences  are  also  observable  in  the  execution 
of  this  admirably-conceived  character.  The  manner  in 
which  Ladislas  expresses  to  Cassandra  the  hatred  and 
contempt  which  he  fancies  he  feels  for  her,  too  often 
justifies  that  ironical  exclamation  of  the  duchess:  "0! 
what  noble  rage."  It  is  not  pleasing  to  hear  a  prince 
call  a  lady  of  his  court  "  insolent,"  telling  her  coarsely 
that  he  might  desire  to  have  her  as  his  mistress,  but  not 
as  his  wife,  and  that  he  would  very  soon  have  overcome 
her  disdain  if  he  had  thought  it  worth  while  to  employ 
violence,  Rotrou  has  been  justly  blamed  for  casting 
odium  upon  a  prince  whom  he  intends  to  crown  with 
honor  at  the  end  of  the  piece,  by  telling  him,  through  his 
father  in  the  first  act  : 

"  S'il  faut  qu'à  cent  rapports  ma  créance  réponde, 
Rarement  le  soleil  rend  sa  lumière  au  monde 
Que  le  premier  rayon  qu'il  répand  ici-bas 
N'y  découvre  quelqu'un  de  vos  assassinats.'" 


*  The  Spanish  author  says  even  more  than  this  : 
"  En  cssas  calles  y  plaças, 

Sicmpre  que  el  aurora  arg-enta, 

Quando  ha  de  adorar  con  rayos 

El  padre  de  las  ostrellas, 

Se  hallan  muertas  mil  perscmas." 
"In  the  streets  and  public  places,  wiicnever  Aurora  enlightens  them, 


JEAN  ROTROU.  307 

So  great  was  the  want  of  delicacy  of  a  time  when  taste 
had  not  yet  learned  to  measure  things  aright,  when 
talent,  and  sometimes  even  genius,  felt  a  strong  incli- 
nation to  exaggerate  both  means  and  effects,  when 
force  was  synonymous  with  violence,  when  violence 
was  manifested  by  ferocity,  when  frankness  wjis  car- 
ried to  brutality,  and  politeness  degraded  into  flattery. 
But,  beneath  this  offensive  mode  of  expression  and  this 
repulsive  exaggeration,  we  shall  every  where  meet  with 
indications  of  nature — a  strong,  vehement,  passionate 
nature  ;  and  we  shall  ever  feel  convinced  that  Rotrou 
was  able  both  to  imagine  and  to  portray  it  in  all  its 
forms. 

Nor  is  "  Venceslas"  the  only  proof  that  he  possessed 
an  original  talent,  which  did  not  derive  its  inspiration 
from  the  spirit  and  habits  of  his  time.  Another  of  Ro- 
trou's  works,  "  Laure  Persécutée,"  which  has  fallen  into 
that  oblivion  in  which,  in  many  respects,  it  deserves  to 
remain,  nevertheless  contains  a  scene  worthy  to  take 
rank  with  the  best  scenes  of  "Venceslas,"  and  which,  if 
purged  of  a  few  defects  in  taste,  would  not  do  discredit 
to  many  master-pieces  of  a  higher  order  of  perfection. 
Orontée,  Prince  of  Hungary,  loves  and  is  beloved  by 
Laura,  a  young  girl  of  inferior  rank.  His  fi'iends  have 
succeeded  in  persuading  him  that  his  mistress  is  unfaith- 
ful to  him.  In  rage  and  despair,  he  demands  the  resto- 
ration of  his  letters,  which  Laura  returns  to  him  with 
touching  gentleness  and  tenderness  ;  and  Orontée  swears 
never  to  see  her  again.  His  confidant.  Octave,  neverthe- 
less, when  in  search  of  him,  suspects  that  he  will  find 
him  at  Laura's  door,  and  there,  in  fact,  he  finds  him, 
lying  on  the  threshold,  weeping. 

when  she  comes  to  worship  the  father  of  the  stars  with  her  rays,  a  thousand 
persons  are  found  dead."  - 


308  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

OCTAVE. 

" Quoi  !   Seigneur,  et  si  tard  et  sans  suite? 


ORONTEE. 

Que  veux-tu  1  sans  dessein,  sans  conseil,  sans  conduite, 
i\Ion  cœur,  sollicité  d'un  invincible  effort, 
Se  laisse  aveuglément  attirer  à  son  sort  ; 
Pour  n'être  pas  témoin  de  ma  folie  extrême. 
Moi-même  je  voudrois  être  ici  sans  moi-même. 
Qu'un  favorable  soin  t'amène  sur  mes  pa's! 
Saisi,  troublé,  confus,  je  ne  me  connois  pas  ; 
Et  ta  seule  présence,  en  ce  besoin  offerte. 
Arrête  mon  esprit  sur  le  point  de  sa  perte." 

Octave,  who  is  a  party  to  the  deception  which  has  been 
practiced  upon  Orontée,  and  who,  if  the  prince  sees 
Laura,  dreads  that  his  perfidy  will  be  unmasked,  tries  to 
animate  him  to  firmness  of  conduct,  and  says: 

"  II  faut  payer  de  force  en  semblables  combats  : 
Qui  combat  mollement  veut  bien  ne  vaincre  pas. 

ORONTÉE. 

Je  l'avoue  à  toi  seul,  oui,  je  l'avoue.  Octave, 

En  cessant  d'être  amant  je  deviens  moins  qu'esclave  ; 

Et  si  je  la  voyois,  je  crois  qu'à  son  aspect. 

Tu  me  verrois  mourir  de  crainte  et  de  respect.  / 

Je  ne  sais  par  quel  sort  ou  quelle  frénésie 

Mon  amour  peut  durer  avec  ma  jalousie  ; 

Mais  je  sens  en  effet  que,  malgré  cet  affront, 

Dont  la  marque  si  fraîche  est  encor  sur  mon  front. 

Le  dépit  ne  sauroit  l'emporter  sur  la  flamme, 

Et  toute  mon  amour  est  encor  dans  mon  âme." 

Octave,  in  greater  alarm  than  ever,  endeavors  to  over- 
come his  weakness  by  representing  its  probable  conse- 
quences, and  says  : 

"  Laure,  en  un  mot.  Seigneur,  n'est  pas  loin  de  la  paix. 

OKONTÉE, 

Moi  !  que  je  souffre  Laure  et  lui  parle  jamais  ! 
Que  jamais  je  m'arrête,  et  jamais  je  me  montre 
Où  Laure  doive  aller,  où  Laure  so  rencontre  ! 
Que  je  visite  Laure  et  la  caresse  un  jour  ! 
Que  Laure  puisse  encor  me  donner  de  l'amour!" 

The  conversation  continues  in  this  way  between  the 


JEAN  ROTROU.  309 

prince  and  his  confidant  for  some  time,  and  whenever  it 
is  not  animated  by  passion,  it  is  laden  with  subtletjes 
and  plays  upon  words  which  are  too  common  in  works 
of  this  period,  for  it  be  necessary  for  me  to  quote  any 
examples.'  But  suddenly  the  prince  interrupts  the  dia- 
logue, and,  without  giving  any  answer  to  Octave,  ex- 
claims : 

"  Qu'on  m'a  fait  un  plaisir  et  triste  et  déplaisant, 
Et  qu'on  m'a  mis  en  peine  en  me  désabusant  ! 
Qu'on  a  blessé  mon  cœur  en  guérissant  ma  vue  ! 
Car  enfin  mon  erreur  me  plaisoit  inconnue  : 
D'aucun  trouble  d'esprit  je  n'étois  agité, 
Et  l'abus  me  servoit  plus  que  la  vérité. 
Moi  !   que  du  choix  de  Laure  enfin  je  me  repente  ! 
Que  jamais  à  mes  yeux  Laure  ne  se  présente  ! 
Que  Laure  ne  soit  plus  dedans  mon  souvenir  ! 
Que  de  Laure  mon  cœur  n'ose  m'entretenir  ! 
Que  pour  Laure  mon  sein  n'enferme  qu'une  roche  ! 
Que  je  ne  touche  à  Laure  et  jamais  ne  l'approche  ! 
Que  pour  Laure  mes  vœux  aient  été  superflus  ! 
Que  je  n'entende  Laure  et  ne  lui  parle  plus  ! 
Frappe,  je  veux  la  voir. 

OCT.VVE. 

Seigneur. 

ORONTÉE. 

Frappe,  te  dis-je. 

OCTAVE.  ..  ^     '• 

Mais  songez- VOUS  à  quoi  votre  transport  m'oblige  1 

ORONTÉE. 

Ne  me  conteste  point. 

OCTAVE. 

Quel  est  votre  dessein  1 
okontée. 
Fay  tôt,  ou  je  te  mets  ce  poignard  dans  le  sein. 

OCTAVE. 

Eh  bien  !  je  vais  heurter. 


"  Que  veux-tu  !  mon  attente  étoit  une  chimère 
Qui  porta  des  enfans  semblables  à  leur  mère  : 
Comme  je  bâtissois  sur  un  sable  mouvant. 
J'ai  produit  des  soupirs  qui  ne  sont  que  du  vent.* 


310  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

ORONTÉE. 

Non  !  n'en  fais  rien,  arrête  ; 
•  Mon  honneur  me  retient  quand  mon  amour  est  prête, 

Et  l'une  m'aveuglant,  l'autre  m'ouvre  les  yeux. 

OCTAVE. 

L'honneur,  assurément,  vous  conseille  le  mieux. 
Retirons-nous. 

ORONTÉE. 

Attends  que  ce  transport  se  passe. 
Approche  cependant  ;  sieds-toi,  prends  cette  place  ; 
Et  pour  me  divertir,  cherche  en  ton  souvenir 
Quelque  histoire  d'amour  de  quoi  m'entretenir. 

OCTAVE. 

Ecoutez  donc  :  Un  jour. ..... 

ORONTEE  rêvant. 

Un  jour  cette  infidelle 
M'a  vu  l'aimer  au  point  d'oublier  tout  pour  elle  ; 
Un  jour  j'ai  vu  son  cœur  répondre  à  mon  amour  ; 
J'ai  cru  qu'un  chaste  hymen  nous  uniroit  un  jour; 
Un  jour  je  me  suis  vu  comblé  d'aise  et  de  gloire .... 

Mais  ce  jour-là  n'est  plus Achève  ton  histoire. 

OCTAVB. 

Un  jour  donc  dans  un  bal  un  seigneur 

ORONTÉE. 

Fut-ce  moi  1 
Car  ce  fut  dans  un  bal  qu'elle  reçut  ma  foi  ; 
Que  mes  yeux  éblouis  de  sa  première  vue 
Adorèrent  d'abord  cette  belle  inconnue, 
Qu'ils  livrèrent  mon  cœur  à  l'empire  des  siens, 
Et  que  j'offris  mes  bras  à  mes  premiers  liens. 
Mais  quelle  tyrannie  ai-je  enfin  éprouvée  ! 
Octave,  c'est  assez,  l'histoire  est  achevée." 

Passing  over  a  few  improprieties,  and  affected  repeti- 
tions, "we  fearlessly  ask,  are  not  these  emotions  the  same 
as  "we  find  afterward  displayed  by  Pyrrhus,  Orosmane, 
and  Vendôme  ?  Is  not  this  love  in  all  its  power  and  all 
its  weakness  ? 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  this  scene  belongs 
entirely  to  Rotrou  ;  the  energy  of  its  last  characteristic, 
in  particular,  is  marked  by  a  singularity  which  would 
seem  to  belong  to  Shakspeare  and  Othello,  rather  than  to 


JEAN  ROTROU.  311 

a  Frenchman  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  sources 
from  which  Rotrou  derived  his  materials  were  so  numer- 
ous and  varied,  and  the  originals  that  he  imitated  have 
become  so  foreign  to  our  -knowledge,  that  we  can  not 
pretend  to  have  discovered *them  all,  or  to  distinguish,  in 
the  works  of  the  French  poet,  that  which  really  belongs 
to  him  ;  but,  as  regards  that  which  he  borrowedj  he  is 
entitled  to  the  merit  of  having  discovered,  felt,  and  ren- 
dered it.  He  is  equally  capable  sometimes  of  discerning 
and  expressing,  with  great  keenness  of  observation,  those 
gentler  and  more  reserved  emotions,  the  description  of 
which,  though  they  belong  to  nature,  enters  more  into 
the  province  of  comedy.  In  "  La  Sœur,"  a  young  girl, 
alarmed  at  not  having  seen  her  lover  during  the  day,  is 
anxious  to  find  some  means  of  bringing  him  to  her  side 
without  compromising  herself,  so  she  orders  her  servant 
to  go  to  him  with  these  instructions  : 

"  Confesse-lui  ma  crainte  et  dis-lui  mon  martyre  ; 
Que  l'accès  qu'un  mari  lui  donne  en  sa  maison 
Me  le  rend,  en  un  mot,  suspect  de  trahison. 
Mais  non,  ne  touche  rien  de  ce  jaloux  ombrage  ; 
C'est  à  sa  vanité  donner  trop  d'avantage  ; 
Dis-lui  que  puisqu'il  m'aime,  et  qu'il  sait  qu'aux  amans 
Une  heure  sans  se  voir  est  un  an  de  tourmens, 
Il  m'afflige  aujourd'hui  d'une  trop  longue  absence. 
Non,  il  me  voudroit  voir  avec  trop  de  licence. 

Dis-lui  que  dans  le  doute  où  me  tient  sa  santé 

Mais  puisque  tu  l'as  vu,  puis-je  en  avoir  douté  1 

Flattant  trop  un  amant,  une  amante  inexperte 

Par  ses  soins  superflus  en  hasarde  la  perte. 

Va,  Lydie,  et  dis-lui  ce  que,  pour  mon  repos, 

Tu  crois  de  plus  séant  et  de  plus  à  propos  ;  '    .  _,  '.\ 

Va,  rends-moi  l'espérance,  ou  fais  que  j'y  renonce  ;       •  •  >•; 

Ne  dis  rien  si  tu  veux  ;  mais  j'attends  sa  réponse." 

This  last  line  is  charming. 

After  reading  these  examples,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
admit  that  Rotrou  possessed  a  rare  and  delicate  talent 
for  depicting  the  tender  passions  and  secret  movements 


312  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORAEIES. 

of  the  heart.  Unfortunately,  hé  did  not  yield  sufficiently 
often  to  his  natural  impulse.  After  having  produced 
"Venceslas,"  he  tried,  in  "  Cosroes,"  to  imitate  Cor- 
neille ;  and  his  work  was  characterized  by  all  the  defects 
of  imitators,  excepting  exaggeration  of  the  manner  of 
his  model.  "  Cosroes"  is  a  rather  well-arranged  tragedy, 
in  which  political  interests  are  discussed  with  consider- 
able wisdom,  and  in  which  the  author  has  succeeded  in 
representing,  with  sufficient  interest,  the  various  events 
of  a  revolution  which  deprives  a  king  of  his  throne,  and 
substitutes  in  his  place  that  one  of  his  sons  whom  he 
intended  to  rob  of  his  legitimate  rights,  in  order  to  be- 
stow the  crown  upon  a  younger  brother.  But  there  is 
nothing  in  the  piece  to  strike  the  imagination,  and  no- 
thing to  excite  any  strong  curiosity.  Siroes,  the  eldest 
son  of  Cosroes,  sometimes  yielding  with  grief  to  the  ne- 
cessities of  his  position  and  the  advice- of  his  adherents/ 
who  compel  him  to  condemn  his  father  and  brother,  and 
sometimes  giving  way  to  those  natural  feelings  which  he 
has  had  so  much  difficulty  to  overcome,  is  perhaps  a  very 
natural  character  ;  but  he  does  not  possess  sufficient  am- 
bition, or  sufficient  virtue,  for  the  stage.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  Merdesanes,  his  brother  ;  who  at  first  refuses 
the  crown  which  Cosroes  wishes  to  confer  upon  him,  to 
the  prejudice  of  his  elder  brother,  but  afterward  accepts 
it.  There  is  nothing  sufficiently  emphatic  or  determinate 
in  this  tragedy  to  support  its  pretensions  to  revive  the 
recollection  of  Corneille.  The  early  scenes,  however,  be- 
tween Siroes  and  his  mother-in-law,  may  have  suggested 
the  idea  of  "  Nicomède."  ' 

After  "  Cosroes,"  "  Florimonde"  and  "  Don  Lope  de 
Cardonne,"  probably  imitations  from  the  Spanish,  and 
which  are  remarkable  only  by  the  resemblance  of  the 

'  "Nicomède"'  appeared  in  1C52,  and  "Cosroes"  in  1648. 


JEAN  ROTROU.  313 

latter  to  "  Venoeslas,"  terminated  the  dramatic  career  of 
Rotrou.  He  had  been  married  for  some  time  to  Mar- 
guerite Le  Camus,  was  the  father  of  three  children,  and 
probably  feeling  determined  to  introduce  into  his  conduct 
a  little  more  of  the  regularity  required  by  his  new  posi- 
tion, he  had  bought  the  office  of  Lieutenant  of  the  baili- 
wick of  Dreux.  Notwithstanding  the  exactitude  with 
which  it  would  appear  that  he  discharged  the  duties  of 
this  post,  he  was  at  Paris  when  he  learned  that  Dreux 
was  ravaged  by  a  contagious  disease,  and  that  death  had 
removed,  or  fear  frightened  away,  the  authorities  whose 
business  it  was  to  maintain  public  order,  and  to  strive  to 
arrest  the  progress  of  the  evil.  He  set  out  at  once  for 
the  post  of  duty  ;  and  at  a  time  which  called  for  the 
manifestation  of  the  noble  and  excellent  qualities. of  every 
lofty  soul,  he  devoted  himself,  without  hesitation  or  éelf- 
regard,  to  the  performance  of  those  duties  which  were 
required  for  the  public  welfare  and  care  for  every  indi- 
vidual. In  vain  did  his  brother  and  friends  urge  him  to 
provide  for  his  own  safety  ;  his  only  answer  was  that  his 
presence  was  needed,  and  he  terminates  his  letter  with 
these  words  :  "It  is  not  that  the  peril  in  which  I  am 
placed  is  not  very  great,  since  at  the  moment  at  which  I 
am  writing  the  bells  are  tolling  for  the  twenty-second 
person  who  has  died  to-day  ;  it  will  be  my  turn  when  it 
shall  please  G-od."  These  words,  which  may  be  regarded 
as  a  model  of  the  simplicity  and  calmness  of  true  cour- 
age, sustained  by  the  conviction  of  duty,  are  the  last 
which  remain  to  us  of  Rotrou  ;  for  he  was  attacked  by 
the  malady  a  few  days  afterward,  and  died  on  the  27th 
of  June,  1650,  in  the  forty-first  year  of  his  age.' 

'  The  death  of  Rotrou  was  proposed,  in  1810,  as  the  subject  for  the 
prize  for  poetry  awarded  by  the  French  Academy  ;  and  the  prize  was 
gained  by  M.  Miilevoye, 

0  .     ' 


314  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

Thus  perished,  in  the  prime  of  his  life,  character,  and 
talents,  a  man,  who,  if  we  may  judge  of  him  by  the  last 
act  of  his  life,  was  destined  to  give  a  memorable  exam- 
ple of  virtues  whose  exercise  had  been  only  suspended  by 
the  impetuosity  of  youth  ;  and  a  poet,  who,  from  the 
lofty  flight  he  had  just  taken,  might  have  been  thought 
destined  to  discover  new  beauties  in  the  art  of  song.  All 
that  remains  of  Rotrou  gives  us  the  idea  of  a  man  who 
was  not  strong  enough  to  rise  above  his  age,  but  who 
was  worthy  of  a  time  capable  of  giving  him  better  sup- 
port. Rotrou  is  wanting  in  that  invention  which  can 
produce,  arrange,  and  direct  the  incidents  of  a  great 
drama  ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  assign  limits  to  the  splendid 
effects  which  he  might  have  derived  from  the  emotions  of 
the  heart  and  the  movement  of  the  passions.  His  style, 
though  frequently  obscure,  unsuitable,  and  forced,  some- 
times receives  from  the  sentiment  by  which  it  is  ani- 
mated a  natural  elegance,  which  a  little  more  art  and 
study  might  have  rendered  more  familiar  to  him.  In  a 
word,  though  he  makes  us  regret  that  he  was  not  all  that 
he  might  have  been,  Rotrou  rises  far  above  the  common 
herd  of  his  contemporaries,  who  could  not  but  have  been 
what  they  were. 


PAUL   SCARIION. 

(1610-1660.) 


There  are  periods  in  history  when  a  craving  after 
pleasure  is  displayed  with  almost  furious  vehemence,  al- 
though it  proves  to  be  nothing  but  a  craving  after  dissi- 
pation. At  such  periods,  diversions  destitute  of  gayety 
are  abundant;  the  noise  of  festivity  is  not  accompanied 
by  the  sounds  of  joy:  splendor  must  be  combined  with 
every  pleasure  to  prove  that  it  is  a  pleasure  ;  and  those 
men  who  hasten  in  pursuit  of  enjoyment,  surprised  to 
find  them  so  cold  and  empty,  complain  of  the  ennui  con- 
nected with  that  agitation  with  which  they  can  not  dis- 
pense. 

It  is  especially  in  times  of  public  misfortune  that  this 
moral  infirmity  exhibits  itself.  At  such  times,  the  soul, 
tormented  by  painful  feelings,  tries  to  rid  itself  of  its 
own  existence,  and  to  dissipate,  in  momentary  enjoy- 
ments, that  strength  which  it  could  not  employ  without 
pain  ;  it  issues  continually  out  of  itself,  and  goes  begging 
the  means  of  self-oblivion  in  every  direction  ;  but  it  meets 
itself  every  where,  and  carries  its  sorrows  wherever  it 
goes.  Pleasures  enter  without  effort,  and  take  up  a  per- 
manent abode  only  where  they  are  received  by  happi- 
ness ;  when  sought  out  by  misfortune,  they  are  either 
rejected  or  corrupted.  Great  calamities  are  almost  in- 
variably accompanied  by  dissoluteness  of  manners  ;  and 


316  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

excess  of  suffering  or  affright  casts  men  into  excessive 
indulgence  in  diversions  ;  but  there  is  nothing  to  indicate 
that,  at  th^se  fatal  epochs,  they  have  ever  found  joy  in 
their  amusements. 

Joy,  on  the  other  hand,  a  taste  rather  than  a  craving  for 
pleasure,  a  capacity  for  finding  amusement  every  where, 
and  a  gayety  as  natural  as  it  is  frolicsome,  seem  to  be, 
at  least  for  the  wealthier  classes,  the  appanage  of  cer- 
tain periods,  which,  though  not  strictly  speaking  periods 
of  happiness,  afford  the  means  and  justify  the  hope  of 
its  attainment.  These  are  times  when  there  is  a  kind  of 
youthfulness  in  the  minds  of  men — an  intoxication  of 
life  and  strength — an  activity  which  diffuses  itself  over 
all  objects,  because  it  meets  with  nothing  which  it  deems 
worthy  to  occupy  its  entire  attention.  To  minds  thus 
disposed,  the  present  moment  is  sufficient,  for  they  devote 
themselves  to  it  with  ail  the  energy  of  their  faculties  ; 
they  may  allow  themselves  to  be  carried  away  by  every 
pleasure,  for  to  them  all  pleasures  are  equally  alluring; 
even  excesses  are  then  endowed  with  a  natural  attractive- 
ness, and  a  vein  of  originality,  which  will  bring  a  smile 
to  the  countenance  even  of  that  wisdom  which  condemns 
them  ;  and,  like  the  follies  of  youth,  they  carry  with  them 
their  own  excuse  and  almost  their  seductiveness, 

"  Tel  fut  le  temps  de  la  bonne  Régence," 

the  Regency  of  Anne  of  Austria,  which  Saint-Evremond 
so  bitterly  regretted  : 

"  Temps  où  régnoit  une  heureuse  abondance, 
Temps  où  la  ville  aussi  bien  que  la  cour 
Ne  rcspiroient  que  les  jeux  et  l'amour.'" 

A   time   when,    as    liantru   said,   "  honnête  homme  and 

'    Saint- l'JvrcmuncI,  '"  Qi^uvrcs,"  vol.  iii.  p.  394. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  317 

bonnes  mœurs  were  incompatible."  *  Morality,  was  not, 
indeed,  despised,  but  it  was  never  thought  of;  no  fear  was 
felt  of  serious  subjects,  but  they  could  never  be  treated 
with  greater  seriousness  than  the  most  frivolous  matters  ; 
for  frivolous  matters  were  of  great  importance  in  the  eyes 
of  people  whose  whole  existence  was  spent  in  the  pur- 
suit of  pleasure.  Civil  troubles  occurred  to  interrupt  the 
"games  and  love"  in  which  their  life  was  passed,  but 
love  continued  still  to  be  the  great  business  even  of  those 
who  aimed  at  reforming  or  overturning  the  State.  It 
was  love  for  the  Duchess  de  Longueville  that  induced 
La  Rochefoucauld  to  join  the  party  of  the  Fronde  ;  and 
Cardinal  de  E-etz,  while  as  yet  a  mere  coadjutor,  made 
use  of  its  powers  to  gain  over  to  his  side  several  ladies, 
who  proved  important  auxiliaries  in  this  children's  war. 
The  heroes  of  the  Fronde,  on  their  return  from  a  skirmish 
with  the  troops  of  Mazarin,  clothed  in  their  armor,  and 
adorned  with  their  scarfs,  hastened  to  present  themselves 
to  the  ladies  who  filled  the  apartments  of  the  Duchess  de 
Longueville.     The  violins  struck  up  within  the  house  ; 

'  Saint-Evremond,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  p.  38.  The  honnête  homme  was  then 
synonymous  with  "  the  member  of  fashionable  society  ;"  he  was  at  once 
"the  man  of  gallantry,"  and  "the  man  of  the  world."  This  name  implied  a 
certain  elegance  of  manners  unattainable  by  any  but  those  who  moved  in 
the  highest  circles.  A  good  address,  ready  wit,  and  gentlemanly  manners 
were  indispensable  requisites.  "  You  do  not  pass  in  the  world  as  a  con- 
noisseur of  poetry,"  says  Pascal,  "  if  you  do  not  put  on  the  insignia  of  a 
poet,  or  as  clever  in  mathematics  unless  you  wear  those  of  a  mathematician. 
But  your  true  honnêtes  gens  will  have  no  insignia,  and  makeno  difference 
between  the  profession  of  a  poet  and  that  of  an  embroiderer.  They  are  not 
called  either  poets  or  geometricians,  but  they  are  the  judges  of  all  such.  You 
can  not  guess  their  intentions  ;  they  will  speak  on  any  subject  that  may 
be  mentioned  when  they  enter.  You  can  not  perceive  that  they  possess 
one  quality  more  than  another,  except  the  necessity  of  bringing  it  into  use  ; 
but  then  you  call  to  mind  that  it  is  equally  important  to  their  character  that 
it  should  not  be  said  of  them  that  they  speak  well  when  no  question  of  lan- 
guage is  under  discussion,  and  that  it  should  be  said  that  they  do  speak 
well  when  such  a  question  is  under  debate."  It  was  essential  that  the 
honnête  homme  should  always  be  able  to  adapt  himself  to  the  tone  of  the 
society  in  which  he  might  happen  to  be  placed. 


318  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

outside,  in  the  public  street,  the  trumpets  resounded  |  and 
Noirraoutier,  in  delight,  pictured  to  himself  Galatée  and 
LinJamor  besieged  in  Marcilli.'  The  Marshal  d'Hocquin- 
court^  promised  Péronne  to  Mme.  de  Montbazon,  "the 
fairest  of  the  fair  ;"^  and  men  frequently  had  less  reason- 
able motives  than  his  for  deciding  on  their  course.  Rouil- 
lac,  brave  and  reckless,  came  to  offer  his  services  to  the 
coadjutor,  who  was  then  at  the  height  of  his  quarrels 
with  the  Prince;  Canillac,  equally  brave  and  reckless, 
came  at  the  same  time,  with  the  same  intentions  ;  but, 
on  seeing  Rouillac,  he  withdrew,  saying,  "  It  is  not  fair 
that  the  two  greatest  madcaps  in  the  kingdom  should 
both  belong  to  the  same  party  ;  I  shall  go  to  the  Hôtel 
Condé  :"  ^  and  thither  he  went.  A  whim  was  then  a 
sufficient  motive;  a  joke  furnished  a  peremptory  argu- 
ment; men  laughed  at  themselves  almost  as  much  as  at 
their  friends  ;  as  far  as  raillery  was  concerned,  neither 
party  could  be  said  to  have  the  advantage  ;  and  in  those 
important  cabals  which  alarmed  the  Court  and  caused 
the  minister  to  tremble,  it  would,  perhaps,  have  been  dif- 
ficult to  find  a  dozen  men  whose  chief  object  was  not  to 
amuse  themselves  with  that  which  seemed  so  passion- 
ately to  absorb  their  energies. 

At  this  period  lived  Scarron.  Hè  had  received  from 
nature  a  mind  and  character  well  adapted  to  conform  to 
the  disposition  of  the  times  in  which  his  life  was  passed  ; 
and  fortune  seemed  to  have  secured  him  a  position  of 
sufFicient  wealth  and  rank  to  enable  him  to  yield  without 
constraint  to  the  tastes  of  his  mind  and  the  inclinations 
of  his  character. 


'  Characters  in  "  Astrée."    See  the  "  Memoirs  of  De  Retz,"  vol.  i.  p.  218. 

"  Afterward  a  Marshal  of  France,  then  Governor  of  Péronne. 

^  "Memoirs  of  De  Retz,"  vol.  i.  p.  271. 

*  "Memoirs  of  De  Retz,"  vol.  ii.  p.  364. 


PAUL  SCARUON.  319 

Paul  Scarron  was  born  in  1610  or  1611.  His  father,  ,- 
Paul  Scarron,  was  a  councilor  of  the  Parliament  at  Paris, 
a  man  of  ancient  family,'  and  possessing,  it  is  said,  an 
income  of  more  than  twenty  thousand  livres  ;  a  consider- 
atle  fortune  for  that  time,  which  his  son  might  hope  he 
would  have  to  share  only  with  two  sisters,  born  of  the 
same  marriage.  The  second  marriage  of  Councilor  Scar- 
ron, however,  diminished  the  expectations  of  his  elder 
children,  and  his  new  wife  did  her  best  to  nullify  them 
altogether.  She  obtained  such  influence  over  the  mind, 
property,  and  affairs  of  her  negligent  husband,  that,  if 
we  are  to  believe  Scarron,  "when  she  was  once  very  ill, 
and  her  husband  feared  he  would  be  left  a  widower, 
he  entreated  her  to  leave  him  a  pension  of  six  hundred 
livres   after  her  death."  ^      Young   Scarron,  though  old 

'  Originally  of  Moncallier,  in  Piedmont,  where  it  had  resided  since  the 
thirteenth  century.  (See  Moreri's  Dictionary.)  He  was  a  relative  of  the 
Scarrons  of  Vaujour,  one  of  whom,  Jean  Scarron,  was  appointed  Provost 
of  the  merchants  in  1664;  another,  Michel  Scarron,  a  Councilor  of  State, 
married  his  daughter  Catherine  to  the  Maréchal  d'Aumont.  During  the 
Regency  of  Anne  of  Austria,  there  lived  a  certain  Pierre  Scarron,  an  uncle 
or  cousin  of  the  poet,  who  is  noticed  in  the  memoirs  of  the  time  for  the 
length  of  his  beard,  an  ornament  which  a  îew  grave  personages  then  retain- 
ed in  opposition  to  the  customs  of  the  age.  One  day,  a  lackey  said  to  him 
at  table,  "My  lord,  there  is  some  dirt  on  the  beard  of  your  greatness." 
"Why  don't  you  say,"  rejoined  one  of  the  company,  "upon  the  greatness 
of  your  beard  V  ("  Menagiana,"  vol.  i.  p.  284.)  Mole  the  keeper  of  the 
seals,  who  was  remarkable  for  a  singularity  of  the  same  kind,  said,  when  he 
saw  Pierre  Scarron,  "That  casts  my  beard  into  the  shade."    (Ibid.  p.  2S.5.) 

'^  "  A  deed  or  requisition,  or  whatever  you  please,  on  behalf  of  Paul 
Scarron,  senior  of  the  invalids  of  France,  Anne  Scarron,  a  poor  widow,  twice 
pillaged  during  the  blockade,  and  Frances  Scarron,  who  is  ill-paid  by  her 
lodger — children,  by  the  first  marriage,  of  the  late  Master  Paul  Scarron, 
Councilor  of  the  Parliament,  all  three  very  ill  at  ease,  both  in  their  persons 
and  properties,  defendants  ;  against  Charles  Robin,  lord  of  Sigoigne,  husband 
of  Madelaine  Scarron,  Daniel  Boileau,  lord  of  Plessis,  husband  of  Clauds- 
Scarron,  and  Nicholas  Scarron,  children  by  his  second  marriage,  all  well 
and  healthy,  and  rejoicing  at  the  expense  of  others,  appellants."  Scarro/i, 
"Œuvres,"  vol.  i.  part  2,  edit.  1737.  This  edition  we  shall  always  quote, 
except  in  Extracts  from  the  "  Roman  Comique."  This  Factum  was  printed 
on  the  occasion  of  a  lawsuit  which  he  had,  after  his  father's  death,  with  his 
half  brothers  and  sisters,  and  to  which  we  shall  presently  refer. 


320  CORNEILLÇ'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

enough  to  perceive  the  designs  of  his  mother-in-law,  was 
neither  sufficiently  patient  nor  sufficiently  skillful  in  hia 
treatment  of  the  weakness  of  his  father — "  the  best  man 
in  the  world,"  he  says,  "but  not  the  best  father  to  his 
children  by  his  first  marriage."  Probably,  Councilor 
Scarron  was  already  disposed  to  feel  displeased  with  his 
son,  whose  principal  virtue  was  certainly  not  deference 
to  opinions  and  tastes  in  which  he  did  not  coincide.  "He 
has  threatened  a  hundred  times  to  disinherit  his  eldest 
son,"  says  Scarron,  "because  he  ventured  to  maintain 
that  Malherbe  wrote  better  verses  than  Ronsard  ;  and  has 
predicted  that  he  would  never  make  his  fortune,  be- 
cause he  did  not  read  his  Bible  and  tie  up  his  breeches 
with  points."  ' 

Subjects  of  more  serious  quarrels,  which  arose  from 
young  Scarron's  dislike  of  his  mother-in-law,  and  the 
equally  great  aversion  which  she  felt  for  himself,  com- 
pelled his  father  to  banish  him  for  some  time  from  the 
paternal  residence.  He  spent  two  years  at  Charleville 
with  one  of  his  relations.  Either  because  the  tedium  of 
exile  had  led  him  to  reflect  a  little  upon  the  necessity  of 
patience,  or  because  the'age  of  enjoyment  had  rendered 
him  careless  of  business,  Scarron,  on  his  return  to  Paris, 
determined  to  allow  his  father  to  waste  in  peace  the  for- 
tune of  his  children  ;  while,  on  his  part,  he  plunged  with 
equal  tranquillity  into  all  those  pursuits  which  render  the 
possession  of  fortune  indispensable.  At  all  events,  it  does 
not  appear  that  new  differences  had  necessitated  a  fresh 
separation,  and  forced  the  son  to  seek  resources  independ- 
enily  of  his  family. 


'  Tlie  fashion  of  tying  the  breeches  to  the  doublet  with  tagged  points 
preceded  that  of  wearing  trunk  hose,  but  old  men  long  retained  the  habit. 
Harpagon,   in    Molière's   "  Avare,"  wa.s   "  trussed  with   points,"     Act   ii. 

8C.  6. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  321 

He  had  adopted  the  ecclesiastical  profession,  but  with- 
out gaining  the  emoluments,  or  subjecting  himself  to  the 
discipline,  of  his  new  calling.  The  garb  which  he  wore 
was  assumed  merely  as  a  means  of  saving  himself  from 
the  necessity  of  choosing  another  occupation  less  favora- 
ble to  his  tastes  for  idleness  and  dissipation.  These 
tastes  led  him  wherever  amusement  was  to  be  found, 
and  he  carried  amusement  whithersoever  he  went.  His 
method  of  diverting  others  was  to  divert  himself;  and  he 
did  not  think  that  wit  could  be  useful  for  any  other  pur- 
pose. I  do  not  know  whether  his  wit  would  have  made 
his  fortune  at  the  Hôtel  de  Rambouillet,  for  where 
Voiture  reigned  supreme,  Scarron  might  well  have  found 
the  society  tedious;  but  Ninon's  parties,  and  all  thosa 
societies  in  which  a  taste  for  pleasure  combined  with  a 
taste  for  wit,  and  liberty  of  action  was  united  to  liberty 
of  thought,  were  the  societies  which  Scarron  frequented  ; 
and  it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  he  frequented 
others  in  still  less  conformity  to  ecclesiastical  regularity. 
A  journey  which  he  made  to  Rome,  when  about  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  does  not  appear  to  have  been  dictated 
by  more  serious  motives,  or  to  have  produced  more  serious 
results,  than  those  which  ordinarily  characterized  his  con- 
duct. The  recollections  which  remain  to  us,  in  his 
Works,  of  the  time  of  his  youth,  tell  us  only  of  the  pleas- 
ures which  he  regretted,  and  the  natural  gratifications 
with  which  they  supplied  him.  "When  I  reflect,"  he 
writes  to  M.  de  Marigny,  "  that  I  was  strong  enough  until 
twenty-seven  years  of  age  to  drink  frequently  in  the 
German  fashion,  and  that,  if  Heaven  had  left  me  the  legs 
that  once  danced  so  elegantly,  and  the  hands  that  could 
paint  and  play  the  lute  so  well,  I  might  still  lead  a  very 
happy,  though  perhaps  rather  obscure,  life — I  swear  to 
you,  my  dear  friend,  that,  if  it  were  lawful  for  me  to 


322  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

terminate    my  own  existence,   I  would   have    poisoned 
myself  long  ago.'" 

At  length  Scarron  was  afflicted  with  those  maladies 
which  were  destined  to  gain  him  a  celebrity  which  he 
had  never  anticipated,  and  to  devote  to  the  service  of  the 
public  a  gayety  of  mind  which  a  poor  invalid  could  no 
longer  always  employ  in  his  own  service.  We  possess  no 
positive  information  regarding  the  origin  of  the  strange 
infirmities  which  seem  to  have  fallen  upon  him  suddenly, 
and  made  him  a  cripple  for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
"Scarron  himself  speaks  of  them  as  unknown  to  his  phy- 
sicians.'^ The  following  anecdote  is  related  by  La  Beau- 
melle,  and  has  been  repeated  by  all  the  compilers  of 
anecdotes  :  "  He  had  gone  to  spend  the  carnival  at  his 
canônicàte  of  Mans.  At  Mans,  as  in  most  large  provin- 
cial towns,  the  carnival  ended  by  public  masquerades 
which  strongly  resembled  our  fairs  of  Bezons.  Abbé 
Scarron  determined  to  join  the  maskers  ;  but  under  what 
disguise  should  he  conceal  himself?  He  had  at  once  to 
redeem  the  eccentricity  of  his  character  and  the  dignity 
of  his  position,  to  respect  the  Church  and  do  honor  to 
burlesque.  He  covered  every  part  of  his  body  with  honey, 
ripped  open  a  feather-bed,  jumped  into  it,  and  rolled  about 
until  he  was  completely  covered  vi^ith  feathers.  In  this 
costume  he  paraded  through  the  fair,  and  attracted  uni- 
versal   attention.     The    women   soon    surrounded    him  ; 

'  Scarron,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  i.  pt.  2,  pp.  83,  84.  See  also  his  Portrait  of  him- 
self at  p.  20  of  same  volume  ;  and  his  "  Epitre  à  Pelisson,"  in  vol.  viii.  p.  lOO. 

^  "Mai  dangereux  puisqu'il  est  inconnu." 

The  line  stands  thus,  at  least,  in  the  Amsterdam  edition.     The  edition  of 
1737,  which  we  generally  follow,  gives  it  thus,  vol.  viii.  p.  54  : 

"Mai  dangereux  puisqu'il  est  si  connu." 
This  last  version  is  evidently  erroneous,  as  well  as  contrary  to  the  sense  of 
the  two  following  lines  on  poverty  : 

"  Et  chose  autant  dangereuse  ten>ie, 
Quoiqu'elle  soit,  mieux  que  mon  mal,  connue." 


PAUL  SCARRON.  323 

some  ran  away,  but  others  plucked  him  of  his  plumes, 
and  soon  the  fine  masker  looked  more  like  a  canon  than 
an  American  Indian.  At  this  sight,  the  people  collected 
in  crowds,  and  indignantly  inveighed  against  so  scandal- 
ous an  exhibition.  At  last  Scarron  got  clear  of  his  per- 
secutors, and  fled,  hotly  pursued,  dripping  with  honey  and 
water,  and  almost  dead  with  fatigue.  When  just  at  bay, 
ho  came  to  a  bridge,  jumped  heroically  over  the  parapet, 
and  hid  himself  among  the  reeds  on  the  banks  of  the 
riyer.  Here  his  heat  subsided,  a  chilling  cold  pervaded 
his  system,  and  infused  into  his  blood  the  seeds  of  the 
maladies  which  afterward  afflicted  him.'"  "^      " 

A  single  word  is  sufficient  to  disprove  the  whole  of  this 
story.  Scarron  did  not  obtain  the  canonry  of  Mans  until 
1G46  ;  that  is,  until  after  he  had  been  an  invalid  for  eight 
years,  for  his  malady  commenced  in  1638.*  At  the  time 
when  he  took  possession  of  his  benefice,  he  had  already 
lost  the  entire  use  of  all  his  limbs.'     This  benefice  was 

'  "Mémoires  de  Maintenon,"  vol.  i.  pp.  118,  119.  I  may  here  observe, 
once  for  all,  that  I  shall  only  correct  La  Beaumelle  when  I  think  it  abso- 
lutely indispensable  to  do  so.  To  attempt  to  point  out  and  disprove  all  the 
absurd  conjectures  in  which  he  has  indulged,  both  in  his  Memoirs  and  in 
his  collection  of  Letter.s,  would  be  to  involve  myself  in  discussions  as  interm- 
inable as  useless. 

*  The  year  of  the  birth  of  Louis  XIV.     In  his  "  Typhon,"  he  says  : 
"  Et  par  maudite  maladie, 
Dont  ma  face  est  toute  enlaidie, 
Je  suis  persécuté  dès-lors 
Que  du  très-adorable  corps 
De  notre  Reine,  que  tant  j'aime, 
Sortit  Louis  le  quatorzième." 
'  In  his  Epistle  to  Mlle.  dHautefort,  he  writes  (vol.  viii.  p.  167): 
"  Cependant  notre  pauvre  corps 
Devient  pitoyablement  tors  ; 
Ma  tête  à  gauche  trop  s'incline, 
Ce  qui  rabat  bien  de  ma  mine  : 
De  plus  sur  ma  poitrine  chet 
Mon  menton  touche  à  mon  brcchet." 
The  date  of  this  Epistle,  1646,  is  proved  by  that  of  the  taxe  des  aisés  which 
is  mentioned  in  it. 


324  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

the  first  and  only  preferment  that  he  ever  received.'  It  is 
true  that,  in  his  youth,  he  had  been  at  Mans  on  a  visit 
to  Mile.  d'Hautefort,  whose  estates  were  situated  in  the 
neighborhood  of  that  town  ;  but  he  speaks  of  this  visit 
only  as  of  a  time  of  happiness,''  the  remembrance  of 
which  was  not  attended  by  any  unpleasant  circumstances. 
Finally,  the  only  authority  for  the  truth  of  this  anecdote 
is  La  Beaumelle  ;  no  allusion  is  made  to  it  either  in 
Scarron's  numerous  works,  which  are  full  of  information 
regarding  himself  and  his  misfortunes,  or  in  the  particu- 
lars handed  down  to  us  respecting  him  by  Ménage  and 
Segrais,  his  intimate  friends,  or  in  the  works  of  La 
Marnière'  and  Chauffepié,*  his  biographers,  who  have 
most  diligently  collected  together  all  discoverable  details 
relating  to  his  life.  Without  going  very  far  in  search  of 
singular  adventures  to  a:ccount  for  Scarron's  malady,  a 
sufficient  explanation  will  probably  be  found  in  the 
ordinary  adventures  to  which  he  so  carelessly  exposed 
himself.^ 

But  of  whatever  imprudent  actions  he  might  have  been 
guilty,  his  punishment  was  cruelly  severe.  Irremediable 
pains  successively  seized  upon  all  the  members  of  his 

'  In  another  Epistle  to  Mile.  d'Hautefort  during  the  early  years  of  the 
widowhood  of  Anne  of  Austria  (1643),  we  find  these  lines  : 
"  Mais  j'en  aurois  été  larron 
Si  je  jouissois  d'abbaye, 
.Car,  hélas  !  en  jour  de  ma  vie 
On  ne  m'a  jamais  rien  donné, 
Quoique  je  sois  cnsoutané."  ,    - 

He  had  then  been  an  invalid  for  five  years. 

"^  See  the  "  Légende  de  Bourbon,"  written  in  1641,  in  vol.  viii.  p.  10  of 
his  Works. 

'  Sec  his  Life  of  Scarron,  at  the  beginning  of  his  Works,  edit.  1737. 

*  See  the  article  on  Scarron,  in  his  "  Dictionnaire  historique  et  critique." 

^  In  support  of  this  opinion,  sec  an  epigram  by  Gilles  Boileau,  in  vol.  i. 

part  2,  p.  176  of  Scarron's  Works.     It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  this  epigram, 

which  is  full  of  odious  invectives,  can  not  be  received  as  authoritative  in  the 

matter. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  325 

body  ;  and  ho  became  contorted  and  deformed  in  the 
strangest  manner.  He  has  left  us  the  following  descrip- 
tion of  his  appearance,  when  between  thirty  and  forty 
years  old  : 

"  My  sight  is  tolerably  good,  though  my  eyes  are 
large  ;  they  are  blue,  and  one  is  more  deeply  sunken  than 
the  other,  on  the  side  on  which  I  bend  my  head.  My 
nose  is  rather  well  formed.  My  teeth,  formerly  square 
pearls,  are  now  of  the  color  of  wood,  and  will  soon  be  of 
the  color  of  slate  ;  I  have  lost  one-and-a-half  on  the  right 
side,  and  two-and-a-half  on  the  left  side,  and  two  are  not 
quite  sound.  My  legs  and  thighs  first  formed  an  obtuse 
angle,  afterward  an  equilateral  angle,  and,  at  length,  an 
acute  one.  My  thighs  and  body  form  another  ;  and  my 
head,  always  dropping  on  my  breast,  makes  me  not  ill 
represent  a  Z.  I  have  got  my  arms  shortened  as  well  as 
my  legs  ;  and  my  fingers  as  well  as  my  arms.  In  a 
word,  I  am  an  abridgment  of  human  miseries.'"  In  an- 
other place,  he  tells  us  that  he  is  unable  to  use  his  hands 
for  any  purpose  whatever  f  and  he  frequently  informs  his 
correspondents  that  he  is  obliged  to  employ  one  of  his 
servants  to  write  his  letters.'     On  one  occasion,  he  was 


'  See  the  "  Portrait  de  M.  Scarron,  fait  par  lui-même,  et  adressé  au 
lecteur  qui  ne  m'a  jamais  vu,"  in  vol.  i.,  part  2,  p.  20,  of  his  Works. 

*  In  a  letter  to  the  Countess  de  Fiesque  (vol.  viii.  p.  123  of  his  Works) 
he  complains  that  a  fly  once  settled  on  his  nose,  and  he  was  unableto  drive 
it  away  because  his  servants  had  left  the  room. 

"  Pour  mes  mains,  vous  le  savez  bieçi,. 
Elles  me  servent  moins  que  rien."    • 
He  was  at  this  time  able  to  write  with  them,  but  several  passages  in  his 
letters  prove  that  he  was  frequently  unable  to  use  them  at  all. 

'  In  his  "  Seconde  Légende  de  Bourbon,"  vol.  viii.  p.  15,  he  says  : 
"  Mes  mains,  ou  bien  celles  d'un  autre, 
Car  point  n'en  a  l'esclave  vôtre. 
Ou  bien,  s'il  en  pend  à  son  bras, 
Le  pauvret  ne  s'en  aide  pas." 
See  also  the  "  Epître  à  Pélisson,"  vol.  viii.  p.  107. 


326  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

overwhelmed  with  grief  at  not  having  been  able  to  see 
Mme.  de  Villarceaux,  when  she  paid  him  a  visit  : 

"  Car  elle  étoit  à  côté  de  sa  chaise."  ' 

and  he  could  not  turn  his  head  round  to  look  at  her.  As 
for  walking,  it  was  entirely  out  of  the  question  ;'  and  he 
could  hardly  be  seated  in  his  padded  chair  without  suf- 
fering excruciating  pain.'  The  slightest  movement  put 
him  to  torture  ;*  he  was  able  to  sleep  only  by  the  aid  of 
opium;'  and  his  emaciation  was  so  great,  that  his  body 
hardly  possessed  the  consistency  of  a  skeleton." 

XJnder  these  dreadful  circumstances,  Scarron  still  re- 
tained two  sources  of  consolation— his  wit  and  his  stom- 
ach.' But  if  courage  be  necessary  to  make  use  of  wit, 
money  is  still  more  necessary  to  supply  the  wants  of  the 

'  "  Epitre  à  Mademoiselle  de  Lenville,"  vol.  viii.  p.  94. 
^  In  the  "  Epître  à  l'Infante  d'Escars,"  vol.  viii.  p.  100,  he  says  : 
"  Et  même  on  dit,  mais  ce  sont  médisans. 
Qu'on  ne  m'a  vu  marcher  depuis  trois  ans." 
^  In  the  "  Seconde  Légende  de  Bourbon,"  vol.  viii.  p.  15,  he  says  : 
"  Comment  y  trouver  repos 
N'étant  assis  que  sur  des  os  1 
Mais  ici  je  me  glorifie, 
Homme  sans  c  ...  ne  s'assit  mie, 
Et  moi  pauvret  je  n'en  ai  point." 

*  "  A  single  visit  which  he  paid  not  long  ago  to  the  Chancellor  gave  him 
a  great  pain  in  the  back,  and  caused  him  to  say,  '  Hélas  /'  more  than  two 
thousand  times,  besides  exclaiming,  '  Jc  renie  ma  vie  P  and  '  Maudit  soit  le 
procès  .''  more  than  two  hundred  times  apiece."     See  the  "  Factum." 

°  "  Tant  l'opium  m'a  hébété, 

Dont  j'use  l'hiver  et  l'été, 
Afin  que  dessus  ma  carcasse 
Le  sommeil  parfiais  séjour  fasse." 

*  See  the  "  Vers  adressés  à  Scarrôn  sur  son  Virgile  Travesti,"  vol.  îv. 
p.  73  : 

"  Toi  qui  chantas  jadis  Typhon, 
Chétif  de  corps,  d'âme  sublime, 
Toi  qui  pèses  moins  qu'un  chiffon." 
^  "  The  interior  of  my  body  is  still  so  good  that  I  drink  all  sorts  of 
liquors,  and  eat  all  sorts  of  viands,  with  as  little  reserve  as  the  greatest 
glutton." — "Letter  to  M.  de  Marigny,"  vol.  i.,  part  2,  p.  84. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  327 

stomach  ;  and  poverty  formed  the  climax  of  Scarron's 
misfortunes.  Without  a  profession,  and  utterly  incapa- 
ble of  earning  his  own  livelihood,  Scarron  had  no  resource 
but  the  fortune  of  his  father,  who  was  still  alive  ;  and  it 
would  appear  that  his  mother-in-law,  whose  interest  it 
was  to  confirm  him  in  his  carelessness  rather  than  to 
arouse  him  to  effort,  had  always  allowed  his  wants  to  he 
supplied  in  such  a  manner  that  he  should  have  no  cause 
for  complaint.  But  external  circumstances  occurred  to 
aggravate  and  disclose  the  disordered  state  of  his  affairs. 
Richelieu,  who  was  deeply  incensed  against  the  Parlia- 
ment for  the  opposition  which  it  continually  offered  to 
his  measures,  revenged  himself  upon  it  from  time  to  time 
by  -strokes  of  authority  which  awed  it  into  temporary 
submission.  On  every  manifestation  of  resistaince,  two 
or  three  councilors  were  banished  ;  and  their  recall  was 
made  to  depend  upon  the  obedience  of  their  colleagues. 
On  one  of  these  occasions,  Scarron's  father,  animated,  as 
it  would  appear,  by  the  example  and  eloquence  of  the 
President  Barillon,  and  the  Councilors  Salo  and  Bitaux,' 
displayed  so  much  zeal  and  vigor,  that  the  public  be- 
stowed upon  him  the  nickname  of  "the  apostle."^  He 
was  banished,  with  those  of  his  colleagues  whose  views 
he  had  maintained  ;  and  shortly  afterward,  in  1641,  the 
king  having  declared  that  *'  he  alone  had  the  right  to 
dispose  of  all  the  offices  of  the  Parliament,"^  they  were 
deprived  of  their  emoluments,  and  continued  in  their 
banishment. 

This  event  completed   the  derangement  of  Councilor 

'  In  his  "  Requête  au  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,''  vol.  viii.  p.  54,  he  thus 
inveighs  against  these  gentlemen  : 

"  0  Barillon,  Salo  l'aîné,  Bitaux,  ,         .    . 

Votre  parier  nous  cause  de  grands  maux.*'   ".  ' 
*  See  various  letters,  in  Scarron's  Works,  vol.  i.,  part  Ï,  p.  169,  and  vol. 
viii.  pp.  53,  86,  90.  ^  "Mézerai,"  vol.  xii.  p.  145. 


328  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

Scarron's  affairs  ;  '  and  his  wife,  who  remained  at  Paris, 
did  not  settle  them  to  the  advantage  of  her  step-children, 
or  indeed  of  her  own  sons  and  daughters.  Avidity  is  a 
snare  in  which  avarice  is  frequently  caught.  If  we  are 
to  believe  Scarron's  stories  about  his  mother-in-law,  her 
fondness  for  gambling,  and  the  losses  which  she  experi- 
enced through  having  "  lent  out  her  money  at  exorbitant 
interest,"  did  more  than  absorb  the  profits  derived  from 
her  parsimonious  house-keeping,  which  she  carried  so 
far  as  to  "  make  the  holes  of  her  sugar-castor  very  small," 
that  the  sugar  might  pour  out  in  less  abundance.  Scar- 
ron,  who  was  busied  in  efforts  to  obtain  the  recall  and 
restoration  of  his  father,  encouraged  by  a  slight  expres- 
sion of  the  Cardinal's  approval  of  the  burlesque  requisi- 
tion which  he  had  presented  to  him  on  the  subject,"  was 
beginning  to  entertain  some  hope  of  success,  when  Rich- 
elieu died,  at  the  end  of  1642.  Councilor  Scarron  him- 
self died,  it  appears,  in  1643,  while  still  in  disgrace  and 
exile  at  Loches;  and  Paul  Scarron  and  his  two  sisters 
inherited,  not  the  remnant  of  his  father's  fortune,  but 
the  lawsuits  brought  against  them,  to  deprive  them  of  it, 
by  their  mother-in-law,   "  Françoise  de  Plaix,  the  most 

'  See  the  "  Requête  au  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,"  vol.  viii.  p.  54  : 
"  Quatre  ou  cinq  fois  maudit  soit  la  harangue 
Que  langue  fit,  et  dont  punie  est  langue, 
Car  je  crois  bien  que  depuis  ce  temps-là 
Fort  peu  de  quoi  mettre  sur  langue  il  a." 
'  The  requisition  ended  with  these  lines  : 

"  Fait  à  Paris,  ce  dernier  jour  d'Octobre, 
Par  moi,  Scarron,  qui  malgré  moi  suis  sobre, 
L'an  que  l'on  prit  le  fameux  Perpignan, 
Et  sans  canon  la  ville  de  Sedan." 
The  Cardinal  observed  that  the  letter  was  dated  pleasantly.     Scarron,  who 
was  immediately  informed  of  this  saying,  was  led  by  it  to  entertain  the 
highest  liopos,  and  hastened  to  thank  the  Cardinal  in  an  ode  which  is  not 
suindently  Imrle.sqiie  to  cover  its  attempts  at  pomposity.     He  was  so  much 
flattered  by  this  compliment  that,  long  after  the  Cardinal's  death,  he  alludes 
to  it  in  several  parts  of  his  works.     Among  others,  see  the  "  Epître  à  Mlle. 
d'Hautefort,"  vol.  viii.  p.  i66. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  323 

litigating  woman  in  the  world  ;"  and  these  lawsuits  were 
continued  for  several  years  after  her  death,  by  the  three 
children  born  of  her  marriage  with  the  Councilor. 

Against  this  accumulation  of  evils,  Scarron  had  to 
contend  with  a  body  that  was  scarcely  alive,  an  acute, 
frivolous,  and  impetuous  mind,  and  a  soul  which  had 
undergone  no  preparation  for  misfortune.  Scarron,  there- 
fore, felt  no  desire  to  maintain  this  unequal  conflict,  and 
exerted  all  his  talents  to  escape  from  it.  A  complete 
child,  as  regarded  the  ehangefulness  and  vivacity  of  his 
impressions,  he  yielded  unresistingly  to  pain  when  it  be- 
came strong  enough  to  overcome  him  ;  and  as  soon  as  it  al- 
lowed him  a  little  relaxation,  he  abandoned  himself  with 
equal  thoroughness  to  the  impulses  of  his.  gayety  and  wit. 
In  the  excess  of  his  misfortunes,  or  even  in  the  simplest 
disappointments  of  life,  he  declined  recourse  to  none  of 
the  consolations   of  weakness.     He   indulged   in  tears,' 

'  His  singular  propensity  to  weeping  is  noticed  in  several  passages  of  his 
Works.  He  terminates  a  jocular  letter  to  Mme.  Tambonneau,  because  his 
agony  tortures  him,  he  says  : 

"Et  le  fait  pleurer  comme  un  veau." 
Nothing  so  violent  as  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  however,  was  necessary  to 
call  forth  his  tears  ;  they  were  ready  to  flow,  even  when  he  was  embarrassed 
by  the  interchange  of  compliments.  "  When  I  receive,  or  am  obliged  to  pay 
compliments,"  he  says  in  a  letter  to  M.  de  Vivonne,  "  I  begin  to  cry,  and 
get  rid  of  them  in  the  most  pitiable  manner  in  the  world  ;"  and  he  again 
mentions  this  peculiarity  in  a  letter  to  the  Maréchal  d'Albret.  In  the  "  Se- 
conde Légende  de  Bourbon,"  he  thus  describes  an  adventure  with  a  footman, 
who  attempted  to  prevent  him  from  entering  a  ball-room  ; 
"  Un  jour  que  j'entrois  dans  un  bal, 

Sans  que  je  lui  fisse  aucun  mal,  '   ' 

Sa  main  voulut  ma  gorge  prendre, 

Et  la  prit  sans  vouloir  la  rendre, 

Comme  si  ma  gorge  eût  été 

Un  bien  dont  il  eût  hérité  ; 

Enfin  il  ressentit  les  charrtj^s 

De  deux  yeux  qui  versent  des  larmes  ; 

Le  cœur  de  caillou  devint  chair 

De  cet  impitoyable  archer. 

Et  j'entrai  dedans  l'assemblée, 

Essuyant  ma  face  mouillée." 


330  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

as  well  as  in  the  most  violent  expressions  of  very  harm- 
less anger  ;  '  and  when  his  sufferings  laecame  less  intense, 
he  laughingly  ended  by  forgettiug  them.  At  such  times, 
he  could  complain  without  falling  into  despondency,  and 
frequently  amused  himself  by  the  vivacity  of  his  com- 
plaints, and  the  originality  of  the  shapes  assumed  in 
his  mind  by  the  idea  of  his  sufferings.  "  He  was  agree- 
able and  diverting  in  all  things,"  says  Segrais,  "  even 
in  his  ill-humor  and  his  anger,  because  the  burlesque 
side  of  every  thing  invariably  presented  itself  to  his 
mind,  and  he  immediately  expressed  in  words  all  that 
his  imagination  portrayed  to  him."*  That  openness  of 
soul,  the  readiness  of  his  wit  to  display  its  powers, 
and  that  playfulness  of  imagination  and  humor  which 
led  Scarron  so  rapidly  from  idea  to  idea,  and  from 
sentiment  to  sentiment,  rendered  society  the  chief  ele- 
ment of  his  existence,  and  made  him  the  life  and  soul 
of  every  society  that  he  frequented.  "  I  call  my  valet 
a  fool,"  he  tells  us,  in  his  description  of  himself, 
"and  an  instant  afterward  I  call  him  'sir.'"  Among 
his  friends,  passing  continually  from  iits  of  the  most 
amusing  indignation  to  outbursts  of  the  gayest  buffoon- 
ery, full  of  animation  on  every  subject,  set  in  motion  by 
a  single  word,  ever  disposed  to  dispute  but  never  to  bit- 
terness of  feeling,  prone  to  maliciousness  but  devoid  of 
malignity,  good-natured  in  disposition,^  and  most  ingen- 

'  All  that  I  do  under  this  new  misfortune,"  he  writes  to  M.  de  iJïarigny, 
in  reference  to  an  attack  of  gout,  "  and  in  the  furious  state  of  grief  in  which 
I  am  phinged  by  my  bad  fortune,  is  that  I  swear,  without  boasting,  as  well 
as  any  man  in  Prance.  1  am  sometimes  so  furious  that  if  all  the  devils 
would  come  to  carry  me  oil',  1  think  I  should  go  half  the  way  with  them." 

-  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  159. 

'  An  anecdote  related  by  Sograis  would  seem,  however,  to  prove  that  he 
could  not  always  take  a  joke  ;  i)ut  the  trick  which  was  played  him  was  a 
cruel  one  to  a  man  in  Scarron's  condition.  One  of  his  friends,  named 
Madaillan,  "wrote  to  him  under  the  name  of  a  young  lady>  pretending  that 


PAUL  SCARRON.  331 

uous  in  his  self-consciousness/  Scarron  was  one  of  those 
amiable  creatures  to  whom  we  become  attached  because 
they  please  us,  whom  we  forgive  every  thing  because  we 
should  never  have  the  courage  to  find  fault  with  them, 
whom  we  love  to  see  happy  because  we  share  in  their 
happiness,  and  whose  misfortunes  interest  us  all  the 
more  because  they  never  appear  to  us  under  too  painful 
an  aspect.  When  Scarron  was  no  longer  able  to  visit  his 
friends,  his  friends  came  to  see  him  :  friendship  and  taste 
brought  his  first  visitors  ;  curiosity  and  fashion  brought 
a  still  larger  number  ;  and  his  house  became  one  of  the 
chief  rendezvous  of  that  joyous,  witty,  and  frivolous 
crowd,  who  found  sufficient  pleasure  in  change  of  occu- 
pation, and  whose  love  of  amusement  was  so  great  that, 
in  their  eyes,  the  power  to  amuse  became  almost  a  title 
to  respect. 

Never  did  an  invalid  lead  a  more  animated  life  ;  but 
the  invalid  was  poor,  and  the  pleasures  which  health 

she  was  charmed  with  his  wit,  and  that  she  desired  nothing  more  than  to 
see  him,  hut  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  call  upon  him.  After  the 
interchange  of  several  letters,  the  pretended  lady  made  an  appointment  to 
meet  him  somewhere  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  Scarron,  who  then 
lived  in  the  Marais,  did  not  fail  to  go  to  the  place  of  assignation  ;  but  he 
found  no  one.  No  sooner  had  he  arrived  at  home  than  he  received  a  letter, 
in  which  the  pretended  lady  made  her  excuses  that  an  unforeseen  obstacle 
had  prevented  her  from  keeping  her  word.  Two  or  three  other  appoint- 
ments were  made  with  no  better  success.  At  length,  having  discovered 
Madaillan's  trick,  he  never  spoke  of  his  conduct  without  anger. "^"  Se- 
graisiana,"  p.  155.  It  was  for  this  "  unknown  lady"  that  Scarron  wrote  the 
lines  contained  in  vol.  viii.  p.  170  of  his  Works. 

^  His  self-consciousness  as  an  author  was  concealed  just  as  little  by  him 
as  his  other  qualities.  "  When  you  paid  him  a  visit,"  says  Segrais,  "you 
had  first  to  endure  the  perusal  of  all  he  had  written  since  you  last  saw 
him." — "Segraisiana,"  p.  158  He  called  this  "trying  on  his  works." 
This  mania  in  Scarron  had  the  good  effect  of  correcting  another  author  of 
the  same  bad  habit.  "I  perceived,"  says  Segrais,  "that  I  was  bored  to 
death  when  Scarron,  who  was  my  particular  friend,  and  who  concealed 
nothing  from  me,  opened  his  portfolio,  and  read  me  his  verses." — "  Segrai- 
siana," pp.  12,  13.  From  this  time  forth  Segrais  thought  it  would  not  be 
right  to  read  his  own  poems  to  any  one,  unless  he  were  requested  to  do  so 


332  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

procures  are  the  only  ones  that  cost  nothing.  To  a  taste 
for  neatness  and  elegance,'  which  was  the  necessary 
result  of  his  habits,  Scarron  united  the  keenest  relish  for 
the  only  enjoyments  which  still  remained  within  his 
reach.  He  Tiad  retained,  as  he  says,  a  good  stomach, 
and  was  somewhat  of  a  gourmand.  His  gourmandise^ 
like  all  his  movements,  was  communicative,  and  Scarron 
would  never  have  consented  to  take  a  dull  meal.  His 
table  was  almost  always  surrounded  by  friends  of  good 
humor  and  good  appetite.  It  is  true  that  the  freedom 
of  familiarity  had  banished  from  these  repasts  all  affecta- 
tion, ceremony,  and  entremets — a  sort  of  luxury  then  re- 
served for  the  wealthy  alone.''  Every  guest  was  well 
redeived  who  contributed  a  dish  to  the  entertainment,' 

'  "  Although  Scarron  was  not  rich,  he  was  nevertheless  lodged  very  com- 
fortably, and  had  a  furniture  of  yellow  damask,  which,  with  its  accompani- 
ments, might  well  be  worth  five  or  six  thousand  livres."  "  Segraisiana," 
pp.  127,  128.  "  Scarton  was  very  neat  in  his  dress  and  furniture."  Ibid, 
p.  186. 

*  "  A  very  rich  man  may  eat  entremets,  paint  his  ceilings  and  alcoves, 
enjoy  a  palace  in  the  country  and  another  in  town,  keep  a  handsome  equi- 
page, introduce  a  duke  into  his  family,  and  make  his  son  a  lord."  La  Bru- 
yère, "  Caractères,"  vol.  i.  p.  229.  Several  passages  in  Scarron's  own  works 
confirm  this  peculiarity  in  the  habits  of  his  time.  See  the  "  Epitre  à  Guille- 
mette,"  vol.  i.,  part  2,  p.  26  ;  and  the  "  Epitre  à  la  Reine,"  vol.  viii.  p.  150. 
An  invitation  to  Mignard  (vol.  viii.  p.  438),  while  it  gives  us  a  tolerably 
exact  idea  of  our  poet's  ordinary  entertainments,  informs  us  that  he  did  not 
carry  luxury  so  far  as  entremets  : 

"  Dimanche,  Mignart,  si  tu  veux, 

Nous  mangerons  un  bon  potage, 

Suivi  d'un  ragoût  ou  de  deux, 

De  rôti,  dessert,  et  fromage. 

Nous  boirons  d'un  vin  excellent, 

Et  contre  le  froid  violent 

Nous  aurons  grand  feu  dans  ma  chambre  ; 

Nous  aurons  des  vins  de  liqueur, 

Des  compotes  avec  de  l'ambre. 

Et  je  serai  de  bonne  humeur." 

'  "  D'Elbene  and  I,"  writes  Scarron  to  M.  de  Vivonne,  "  are  excellently 

well  pleased  with  our  petits  sovpcrs  of  contributed  dishes."     He  says,  in 

another  place,  that  this  M.  d'lOlbene  came  every  day  to  share  his  supper 

with  him.     He  was  one  of  Scarron's  greatest  cronies,  and  appears  to  have 


PAUL  SCARRON.  333 

and  many  of  his  friends  who  were  not  present  took  pleas- 
ure in  thus  ministering  to  his  enjoyment  ;  '  but  these 
presents  served  rather  to  increase  the  number  of  his 
guests  than  to  diminish  his  expenditure.  His  two  sis- 
ters, who  had  been  as  badly  treated  as  himself  in  the 
distribution  of  their  father's  property/  had  come  to  add 
to  the  joyous  disorder  of  his  affairs,  and  to  augment,  it 
is  said,  the  number  of  visitors  to  the  house.' 

been  placed  in  a  very  similar  position.  He  was  so  overwhelmed  with  debt 
that  he  did  not  venture  to  leave  his  residence  in  the  Luxembourg  in  the 
day-time  ;  but  he  cared  very  little  about  this  confinement.  One  of  his 
creditors,  meeting  him  one  day  walking  in  the  garden  with  Ménage  and 
Segrais,  pulled  liim  by  the  coat  and  inquired,  "  Sir,  do  you  think  I  shalJ 
ever  be  paid  T'  M.  d'Elbene  said,  in  a  most  obliging  tone  of  voice,  "  Sir, 
I  will  think  about  it  ;"  and  continued  his  walk  without  bestowing  a  thought 
on  the  subject.  After  he  had  taken  two  or  three  turns  up  and  down,  the 
creditor,  thinking  he  had  had  time  enough  for  reflection,  stopped  him  again. 
M.  d'Elbene  turned  round,  recognized  him,  and  said  very  quietly,  "  Sir,  I 
think  not."  The  creditor,  with  equal  quietness,  made  his  bow  and  went 
otf.  Madame  d'Elbene  was  in  the  same  predicament  as  her  husband.  When 
they  married  they  had  nearly  eighty  lawsuits  between  4ihem.  "  Segraisiana," 
pp   66-68. 

'  His  letters  to  Mile.  d'Hautefort,  Mile.  d'Escars,  the  Maréchal  d'Albret, 
and  other  friends,  are  filled  with  thanks  for  presents  of  this  kind. 

'  In  his  "  Factum,"  he  demands  "if  it  is  reasonable  that  the  children  of 
his  father's  second  marriage  should  have  coursing  dogs  and  carriages,  while 
Paul  Scarron,  who  has  no  other  property  than  his  lawsuit,  is  over  head  and 
ears  in  debt,  and  has  tired  out  all  his  friends  ;  Anne  Scarron  walks  the 
streets  on  foot,  with  her  head  bent  forward,  and  muddy  up  to  her  knees,  a 
style  of  walking  which  she  has  inherited  from  her  father  ;  and  Frances 
Scarron,  who  is  neater  and  more  delicate,  is  too  poor  to  ride  in  a  chair,  and 
spoils  a  vast  quantity  of  pretty  shoes." 

^  He  used  to  say  of  his  two  sisters  that  "  one  was  fond  of  wine,  and  the 
other  of  men."  He  used  also  to  say  that,  in  the  Rue  des  Douze  Portes,  in 
which  he  resided,  there  were  "  a  dozen  prostitutes,  counting  his  two  sisters 
only  as  one."  One  of  them,  Frances,  was  very  pretty,  and  had  the  Duke 
de  Trémes  for  her  lover.  She  was  kept  by  him,  it  appears,  for  a  considera- 
ble time,  and  bore  him  a  son,  whom  Scarron  used  to  call'his  nephew.  When 
asked  how  he  came  by  this  nephew,  he  replied  that  he  was  a  nephew  à  la 
mode  du  Marais.  See  the  "  Segraisiana,"  pp.  88,  157.  Segrais  tells  us, 
somewhere,  that  Scarron's  sisters  were  not  married.  But  then,  why  does 
he  call  Anne  Scarron  a  "  poor  widow,"  in  his  "  Factum  î"  And  if  she  was 
a  widow,  why  does  he  speak  of  her  by  her  maiden  name  !  In  the  same 
document,  he  says  that  Frances  Scarron  was  "  ill  paid  by  her  lodger."  It 
does  not  appear  that  and  of  Councilor  Scarron's  elder  children  had  any 


334  COHNEILLE'S  CONTEMPOBARIES. 

What  resources  had  Scarron  to  maintain  such  a  mode 
of  life  ?  The  first  and  surest  means  was  to  incur  debts, 
which  never  troubled  him  until  the  time  came  for  paying 
them;  but  this  always  arrived  so  quickly,  that  he- was 
constantly  obliged  to  devise  other  means  of  subsistence. 
Then,  he  did  not  spare  his  solicitations,  nor  were  his 
Court  friends  deficient  in  promises.  As  he  was  an  Abbé, 
or  at  least  wore  a  cassock,  the  most  natural  method  of 
assisting  him  would  have  been  to  give  him  a  benefice; 
but  to  what  benefice  was  it  possible  to  appoint  so  un- 
clerical  an  Abbé  ?  He  therefore  applied  for  a  very  simple 
one — "so  simple,"  he  said,  "that  it  was  only  necessary 
to  believe  in  God  to  fulfill  its  duties."  '  But  even  of  this 
he  was  as  yet  scarcely  deemed  capable. 

At  length  Mile.  d'Hautefort,  the  firm  friend  of  his  youth, 
who  had  returned  to  Court  after  the  death  of  Louis  XIII.,' 
and  was  held  in  high  favor  by  the  Q,ueen,  inspired  Her 
Majesty  with  a  desire  to  see  so  fashionable  an  invalid. 
Scarron  was  carried  to  the  Louvre  "in  his  gray  chair;" 
and,  after  the  first  few  moments  of  awkwardness,  from 
which  not  even  the  vivacity  of  his  wit  could  deliver  him, 

houses  to  let.  Was  the  Duke  de  Trêmes  this  lodger]  This  is  not  in- 
credible when  we  consider  the  times  in  which  Scarron  lived.  He  after- 
ward quarreled  with  one  or  both  of  his  sisters.  Among  his  Works  we  find 
a  dedicatory  epistle  addressed  to  the  "  très-honnête  et  très-divertissante 
chienne,  dame  Guillemette,  petite  levrette  de  ma  sœ«/".''  Ménage  declares 
that,  at  the  time  of  this  quarrel,  Scarron  reprinted  his  works,  with  this 
erratum,  instead  of  "  chienne  de  ma  saur,'''  read  "  ma  chienyic  de  saur." 
"Ménagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  66.  This  was  probably  one  of  Scarron's  jokes 
turned  into  a  fact  by  Ménage  ;  and  a  reference  to  the  title  is  sufficient  to 
prove  that  such  an  erratum  could  not  have  been  made.  Nothing,  moreover, 
is  more  open  to  doubt  than  what  has  been  written  about  Scarron.  I  do 
not  here  refer  to  La  Beaumclle  alone,  but  to  the  statements  of  Segrais  and 
Ménage,  his  intimate  friends  ;  even  the  documents  based  upon  his  works 
and  the  most  authentic  facts  of  the  time,  are  every  where  full  of  the  most 
unaccountable  contradictions.  Some  of  these  I  shall  point  out  ;  but  many 
more  must  be  passed  over  in  silence. 

'   "Ménagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  154. 

'  Louis  XIII.,  who  was  once  in  love  with  her,  had  afterward  banished  her. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  335 

and  which  was  augmented  by  the  consciousness  of  his 
strange  appearance,  he  regained  his  senses  and  originality, 
and  requested  the  Queen's  permission  to  serve  her  in  the 
capacity  of  her  invalid.  The  Queen  smiled  ;  and  this  was 
Scarron's  appointment.  He  had  hoped  by  means  of  his 
title  to  obtain  a  lodging  in  the  Louvre;  and  urged  his 
request  in  several  pieces  of  verse,  in  which  he  informs 
Her  Majesty  that  "her  invalid  fulfills — 

"  Sa  charge  avec  intégrité."' 

But  this  favor  was  not  granted  him.  He  received  a  gra- 
tuity of  five  hundred  crowns,"  which  was  afterward  changed 
into  a  pension.^  But  in  vain,  to  render  his  pension  cer- 
tain, did  he  request  that  it  might  be  settled  upon  some 
benefice  ;  in  vain,  to  obtain  his  demand,  did  he  employ 
every  tone,  including  even  that  of  penitence,  confessing 
that  in  hi^  youth  he  had  been — 

"  Un  vrai  vaisseau  d'iniquité," 

or,  to  speak  more  naturally,  and  in  his  ordinary  manner — 

"  Un  très-mauvais  petit  vilain  ;"* 

in  vain  did  he  promise  cheerfully  to  endure  his  sufferings 

*  "Stances  à  la  Reine,"  vol.  viii.  p.  304. 

'  According  to  the  "  Epitre  à  Guillemette,"  it  was  M.  de  Schomberg  who 
obtained  this  gratuity  for  him.  This  gentleman  who  subsequently  married 
Mile   d'Hautefort,  seems  to  have  shared  in  her  partiality  for  Scarron. 

^  It  was  the  Commander  de  Souvré,  according  to  the  "  Epitre  à  Guille- 
mette," who  obtained  the  conversion  of  the  gratuity  into  a  pension.  Scar- 
ron's different  biographers  suppose  that  this  pension  was  granted  in  1643. 
We  are  inclined  to  believe  it  was  not  granted  until  1645.  The  matter  will 
be  placed  beyond  dispute  if,  as  is  asserted,  it  was  granted  by  the  protection 
of  Cardinal  Mazarin,  to  whom  Scarron  had  appealed  in  a  poem  entitled 
"L'Estocade."  Now,  this  poem  necessarily  belongs  to  1645,  as  Scarron 
mentions  in  it  that  he  had  been  ill  for  seven  years.  See  vol.  viii.  p.  71  of 
his  Works.  Many  other  reasons  might  be  adduced  in  support  of  this  opin- 
ion, if  it  were  worth  discussion. 

*  "Epitre  à  la  Reine,"  vol.  viii.  p.  149. 


336  CÔRNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

for  the  love  of  God  ;  devotion  could  not  possibly  be  num- 
bered among  his  means  of  obtaining  a  fortune.  His  best 
resource,  the  friendship  of  Mile.  d'Hautefort,  at  length 
obtained  for  him  from  M.  de  Lavardin,  the  Bishop  of 
Mans,  the  little  canonry  in  which  he  was  installed  in 
1646. 

To  these  means  of  subsistence,  Soai-ron  did  not  neglect 
to  add  the  resources  derived  from  a  more  abundant  than 
laborious  use  of  his  pen.  It  does  not  appear  that  the 
idea  of  writing  for  publication  ever  occurred  to  him  dur- 
ing his  younger  days,  when  he  thought  he  could  employ 
his  time  to  better  advantage  ;  and,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  songs  to  Iris  and  Chloris,  which  are  all  above 
mediocrity,  we  possess  no  poem  of  his  composition  which 
does  not  belong  to  the  time  of  his  sufferings.  "  There  is 
nothing,"  says  the  Abbé  de  Choisi,  "  which  loosens  the 
tongue  so  effectually  as  gout  in  the  feet  and  hands;'" 
and  during  the  few  solitary  hours  in  which  his  tongue  was 
compelled  to  remain  idle,  Scarron  committed  to  paper, 
in  rhymes  which  were  less  piquant  than  his  conversation, 
whatever  he  had  been  unable  to  utter  verbally.  These 
writings  were  originally  intended  only  for  the  amusement 
of  a  select  circle  ;  and  some  excessively  familiar  letters, 
a  few  occasional  pieces,  dashed  off  under  the  inspiration 
of  the  moment,  as  fast  as  his  pen  could  write  ;  '  verses  dis- 

'   Choisi,  "  Mémoires,"  pp.  45,  46. 

^  See  the  "  Epitre  à  l'Abbé  d'Espagny,"  vol.  viii.  p.  175  : 
"  Foiu  !   rime  sur  rime  m'engage 
A  griflbnncr  plus  d'une  page, 
Et  ce  n'étoit  pas  mon  dessein 
De  gridbnner  plus  d'un  dixain, 
(  )u  d'un  douzain.  que  je  ne  mente  ; 
Mais  toujours  la  sonune  s'augmente, 
Et  j'ccrirois  jusqu'à  demain 
Si  je  ne  rctiroi.s  ma  main." 
It  was  thus  that  Scarron  wrote  verses.     At  one  time  he  ends  his  letter  be- 
cause "  he  is  going  to  bed  ;"  and  at  another,  because  "  it  is  late,  and  he 


PAUL  SCARRON.  337 

tinguished  only  by  arbitrary  rhymes  from  irregular  prose, 
a  natural  gayety  which  nothing  could  trammel  or  regu- 
late, a  sort  of  childishness  which  occasionally  possessed 
the  rfterit  of  simplicity,  and  a  prattle  which  was  often 
witty  enough  to  conceal  its  frequently  in^-ignificant  char- 
acter— were  the  first  foundations  of  Scarron's  literary 
renown;  and  these  credentials  were  more  than  sufficient 
to  establish  his  reputation,  even  among  men  of  letters. 
Segrais  speaks  of  Scarron's  verses  as  "very  good;"'  and 
the  following  lines  from  his  little  poem  of  "  Hero"  were 
greatly  admired  : 

"  Avec  rémail  de  nos  prairies, 
Quand  on  sait  bien  le  façonner, 
On  peut  aussi  bien  couronner 
Qu'avec  l'or  et  les  pierreries."* 

"  These  lines,"  says  Ménage,  "are  worth  all  the  gold  and 
jewels  to  which  they  allude."'  The  persons  to  whom 
Scarron  addressed  his  effusions  hastened  to  make  them 
public,  and  this  publicity  led  others  to  desire  the  honor 
of  having  something  of  the  kind  to  show.  Thé  Count 
(afterward  Duke)  de  Saint-Aignan,  who  is  mentioned  in 
the  "  Légende  de  Bourbon,"  acknowledged  the  honor  in  a 
poetical  epistle-,  in  which  he  assured  the  "  divine  Scarron" 
that  he  had  read  the  passage  in  which  his  name  was 
mentioned  "  upon  his  knees. "^  A  work  of  greater  pre- 
tensions, the  "  Typhon,"  a  poem  in  three  cantos,  appear- 
ed worthy  of  the  attention  of  a  less  limited  public,  and 
Scarron  had  it  printed  in  1644.     Its  success  fully  equaled 

is  going  to  sup."'     He  dates  one  letter  from  his  chair  in  the  chimney-corner, 
"  Entre  un  épagneul  et  ma  chatte 
Qui  vient  de  lui  donner  la  patte." 
He  avails  himself  of  every  circumstance  ;  nothing  comes  amiss  to  him.     It 
seems  sometimes  as  if  he  had  the  privilege  of  saying  in  verse  what  was  not 
worth  saying  in  prose. 

'  "  Segraisiana,''  p.  12.  -  "  Ménagiana,"  vol.  ii.  p.  324. 

^  Scarron,  "Œuvres,"  vol.  viii.  p.  117. 

.       P 


338  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES 

his  expectations  ;  and  the  "  Typhon,"  though  now  un- 
known even  in  the  provinces,  to  which  Boileau  banished 
its  admirers,'  was  then  considered  as  the  t^-pe  of  that 
style  of  composition  of  which  Scarron  was  regarded  as  the 
model.  Henceforward  he  might  reckon  among  his  surest 
sources  of  revenue  the  income  derived  from  his  Marquis- 
ate  of  Quinette,  a  nickname  which  he  had  bestowed  on 
the  profits  arising  from  the  sale  of  his  works,  from  the 
name  of  the  publisher  to  whom  he  sold  therri.  He  dili- 
gently cultivated  this  fertile  domain  ;  and  the  collection 
of  his  early  poems,  printed  in  1645,  and  two  series  of  tales 
imitated  from  the  Spanish,^  maintained  that  reputation 
which  was  beginning  to  be  of  real  service  to  him.  Our 
stage,  which  was  then  open  to  all  comers,  also  presented 
a  fruitful  source  of  income  to  a  man  who  could  compose 
a  comedy  in  three  weeks  ;  and  the  Spanish  drama  furnish- 
ed him  with  inexhaustible  subjects,  which  it  cost  him 
little  trouble  to  remodel.  There  was  no  obstacle  in  the 
taste  of  the  age  to  the  success  of  those  romantic  intrigues 
which  formed  the  substance  of  such  pieces,  or  of  those 
extravagant  buffooneries  which  constituted  their  principal 
ornament  ;  and  Scarron  had  no  pretensions  to  reform  the 
public  taste.  At  length,  in  1646,  a  journey  to  Mans, 
where  a  troop  of  comedians  were  then  performing,  gave 
him  the  idea  of  his  "Roman  Comique,"  "the  only  one 

"Mais  de  ce  genre  enfin  la  cour  désabusée 
Dédaigna  de  ces  vers  l'extravagance  aisée, 
Distingua  le  naïf  du  plat  et  du  bouffon 
Et  laissa  la  province  admirer  le  Typhmi." 

Boileau,  "Art  Poétique,"  lines  91-94. 
"^  One  of  these  tales,  "  La  Précaution  inutile,"  furnished  Molière  with  the 
idea  of  the  "  Ecole  des  Femmes,"  and  Scdaine  with  the  subject  of  "  La 
Gageure."  In  the  "  Hypocrites,"  we  find  the  substance  of  one  of  the 
principal  scenes  of  "Tartuffe."  Did  Molière  borrow  from  Scarron,  or  from 
the  Spanish  author  to  whom  Scarron  himself  was  indebted]  This  question 
is  not  of  sufficient  interest  to  justify  the  researches  which  would  be  required 
for  its  solution. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  33fi 

of  his  works  which  will  go  down  to  posterity,"  says 
Ménage  ;^  and  in  1648  appeared  the  first  hook  of  his 
"  Virgile  Travesti,"  the  name  and  some  passages  of 
which  have  at  least  helied  Menage's  statement,  and  the 
prodigious  success  of  which  assured  the  triumph  of 
burlesque. 

But  of  all  the  literaiy  labors  in  which  Scarron  was 
engaged,  dedications  were  the  most  lucrative  ;  and  he 
was  not  sparing  of  them.  ''No  one,"  says  Segrais,  "has 
written  more  dedications  than  he  has  ;  but  he  dedicated 
in  order  to  obtain  money.  M.  de  Bellièvre  sent  him  a 
hundred  pistoles  for  a  dedication  which  he  had  address- 
ed to  him,  and  I  took  him  fifty  from  Mademoiselle, 
for  a  wicked  comedy  which  he  had  dedicated  to  her."* 
Princes,  nobles,  and  even  private  persons,  took  pleasure  in 
deserving,  by  their  liberality,  the  place  assigned  to  them 
byScarron  in  his  works.  All,  however,  did  not  attach 
the  same  price  to  the  compliment  ;  and  Scarron  com- 
plained particularly  of  the  French  princes  : 

"  Nos  princes  sont  beaux  et  courtois, 
Doux  en  faits  ainsi  qu'en  paroles  ; 
Mais  au  diable  si  deux  pistoles, 
Fût-on  devant  eux  aux  abois. 
Sortirent  jamais  de  leurs  doigts, 
Arbalètes  à  croquignoles  ; 
Et  l'auteur  enrajre,  qui  leur  fait  un  sonnet. 
N'en  tire  qu'un  coup  de  bonnet."^ 

Mazarin  was  not  more  liberal  than  the  princes.  Scar- 
ron had  dedicated  his  "  Typhon"  to  him  ;  but  the  prime 
minister  had  not  inherited  from  his  predecessor  that  taste 
for  literature  which,  in  a  person  of  high  rank,  is  ever  akin 
to  the  love  of  glory.  Mazarin,  however,  was  either  in- 
sensible to  homage  of  this  kind,  or  else  he  thought  it 

'  "  Ménagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  291. 

*  The  "Ecolier  de  Salamanque."     "  Segraisiana,"  p.  97. 

'  See  the  "Ode  au  Prince  d'Orange,"  vol   viii.  p   273. 


340  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

amply  recompensed  by  the  pension  which,  according  to 
all  appearance,  he  had  just  obtained  for  Scarron.  He 
therefore  received  the  dedication  as  a  mark  of  gratitude 
which  was  due  to  him,  and  with  the  cold  kindness  of  a 
protector  who  thought  the  poet  had  no  right  to  ask  any 
further  favors.  Wounded  in  his  self-love,  as  well  as  de- 
ceived in  his  hopes,  Scarron,  unfortunately,  did  not  con- 
sider himself  as^under  sufficient  obligation  to  a  man  from 
whom  he  had  nothing  more  to  expect  ;  and,  though  com- 
pelled to  leave,  in  his  "Typhon,"  the  invocation  which 
formed  a  part  of  the  work  itself,  and  the  suppression  of 
which  would  have  been  too  open  an  insult,  he  neverthe- 
less suppressed  the  sonnet  containing  the  dedication,  and 
supplied  its  place  by  another,  which  was  probably  not 
printed  at  that  period,  but  which  occurs  in  all  the  later 
editions  of  his  works.  Even  if  Mazarin  had  been  aware 
of  this,  neither  the  oftense  nor  the  offender  then  appeared 
worthy  of  his  resentment  ;  but  Scarron  soon  found  means 
for  making  himself  more  remarkable. 

He  was  at  the  height  of  his  burlesque  reputation  when 
the  troubles  of  the  Fronde  broke  out.  A  man  who  held 
a  pension  from  the  queen,  with  which  he  could  not 
dispense,  naturally  hesitated  before  declaring  against  the 
minister  ;  and.  therefore  Scarron,  notwithstanding  his  ill- 
will,  was  at  first  a  Mazarin.  But  the  difficulties  of  the 
Court  probably  suspended  the  payment  of  his  pension  ; 
and  the  author  of  "  Typhon"  then  gave  full  vent  to  his 
feelings  of  dislike.  When  cries  of  public  indignation 
were  raised  againt  ilie  Mazarin,  he  laughingly  added, 
"  I  dedicated  ray  '  Typhon'  to  him,  but  he  did  not  con- 
descend to  look  at  it."  To  this  motive  for  revenge  were 
doubtless  added  a  multitude  of  others  calculated  to  arouse 
the  patriotism  of  such  a  man  as  Scarron.  The  Fronde 
was  the  party  of  all  good  company  ;  and  the  laughers,  as 


PAUL  SCARRON.  341 

usual,  were  in  opposition  to  authority.  Scarron  naturally 
ranged  himself  on  the  gayest  side  ;  and,  surrounded  as  he 
was  by  friends  of  the  coadjutor  or  partisans  of  the  Prince, 
he  was  not  the  man  to  hold  out  long  for  a  party  which 
was  regarded  as  thoroughly  ridiculous  in  all  those  societies 
which  constituted  the  amusement  and  occupation  of  his 
life.  He  therefore  became  a  Frondeur;  the  "  Mazarin- 
ado"  was  the  fruit  of  his  conversion,  and  gained  him 
enough  honor  among  his  own  party  to  counterbalance  the 
injury  it  inflicted  on  his  fortune  with  the  Court  party, 
and  doubtless  also  on  his  reputation  in  the  judgment  of 
reasonable  people.  The  Cardinal,  who  cared  little  for 
ridicule  after  he  had  braved  hatred,  carefully  perused,  and 
formed  an  impartial  opinion,  it  is  said,  of  the  literary 
merit  of  the  poetical  lampoons  with  which  his  enemies 
inundated  Paris  and  the  provinces.  Had  he  read  the 
^' Mazarinade"  only  as  a  man  of  taste,  we  might  forgive 
him  the  anger  with  which  he  was  filled  by  this  revolting 
tissue  of  coarse  and  obscene  insults,  devoid  alike  of  wit 
and  gayety.  But,  more  than  this,  the  blows  thus  brutally 
struck  had  touched  him  on  a  sensitive  point.  In  the 
splendor  of  his  brilliant  fortune,  Mazarin  remembered 
with  pain  the  humiliations  he  had  endured  in  conse- 
quence of  the  lowly  amours  of  his  youth,  which  were 
thought  all  the  more  ridiculous  because  his  intentions  had 
been  perfectly  serious.'  Though  he  listened  quietly  to  all 
the  infamous  acts  with  which  he  was  charged  by  the  new 
libel  that  had  been  brought  under  his  notice,  he  lost 
patience,  it  is  said,  at  this  passage,  which  reminded  him 
of  his  youthful  follies  : 

"  L'amour  de  certaine  fruitière 
Te  causa  maint  coups  d'ctrivière, 


'  His  love  for  a  fruit-girl  of  Alcala,  whom  he  wished  to  marry  ;  which 
caused  his  dismissal  by  Cardinal  Colonna,  his  first  protector. 


342  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

Quand  le  Cardinal  Colonna 

De  paroles  te  malmena, 

Et  qu'à  beau  pied  comme  un  bricone 

Tu  te  sauvas  de  Barcelone. 


Ton  incroyable  destinée, 
Par  ce  très-sortable  hyménée 
De  toi,  prince  des  maquignons. 
Avec  la  vendeuse  d'oignons. 
Eût  été  vouée  en  Espagne 
ATrevendre  quelque  châtagne.'" 

Although  Scarron  may  for  a  moment  have  enjoyed  his 
triumph,  he  soon  felt  that  such  pleasures  always  cost 
more  than  they  are  worth  ;  and  the  brief  period  of  glory 
which  he  gained  by  this  slight  victory  over  the  common 
enemy  did  not  recompense  him  for  the  loss  of  his  pension, 
which,  from  that  time  forth,  ceased  to  be  paid,  and  he 
was  never  able  to  obtain  its  restoration.  Peace  was 
made  :  the  powerful  men  who  had  disturbed  public  tran- 
quillity obtained  either  pardon  or  new  favors  ;  even  their 
rebellion,  the  dangers  it  had  occasioned,  and  the  fears  it 
had  inspired,  were  titles  which  they  did  not  even  find  it 
necessary  to  adduce  in  support  of  their  claims  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  still  frightened  Court.  But  what  hopes 
could  be  entertained  by  a  man  who  had  been  imprudent 
enough  to  wound  without  possessing  any  means  of  making 
himself  feared  ?  In  vain  did  Scarron  repent  and  pray, 
even  confessing  his  fault,  and  beseeching  its  remission — 

"  Par  le  malheur  des  temps,  et  surtout  pour  le  mien, 
J'ai  douté  d'un  mérite  aussi  pur  que  le  sien  ;" 

he  says  in  a  sonnet  in  praise  of  the  Cardinal,  "  formerly 
the  object  of  his  unjust  satire."  It  was,  indeed,  a  small 
matter,  after  the  "  Mazarinade,"  simply  to  confess  that 
he  had  entertained  doubts  regarding  "so  pure  a  merit;" 
but,  after  having  lost  his  pension,  it  was  a  great  deal  too 

'   Scarron,  "Mazarinade,"  vol.  ix.  pp.  6,  7. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  343 

much  to  praise  the  Cardinal  "  for  not  having  deemed  him 
worthy  of  his  anger.'"  8carron  offended  like  a  child  in  a 
capricious  mood  ;  when  the  caprice  was  passed,  he  begged 
pardon  like  a  child.  His  friends  probably  did  not  blame 
him  for  his  change  of  tone,  but  the  Court  did  not  consider 
it  a  merit  ;  it  forgot  his  faults  only  by  forgetting  the 
culprit,  and  its  indifference  was  the  only  thing  for  which 
Scarron  had  to  thank  it. 

The  author  of  the  "  Mazarinade"  continued,  neverthe- 
less, to  enjoy  most  brilliant  popularity,  which  extended 
through  all  classes  of  society.  We  learn  that  a  clerk  in 
Fouquet's  office  refused  to  render  Scarron  a  service 
because  he  had  never  "dedicated  or  given  any  of  his 
books  to  him," — a  piece  of  politeness  which  had  gained 
him  the  protection  of  another  of  the  clerks  ;  and,  in  the 
letter  in  which  Scarron  relates  this  circumstance,  he  can 
boast  at  the  same  time  that  "  queens,'  princesses,  and  all 
the  persons  of  condition  in  the  kingdom,  do  him  the 
honor  to  visit  him."^  The  Court  had  not  yet  extended  its 
influence  over  the  opinions  and  tastes  of  those  who  were 
not  attached  to  it  by  personal,  and  so  to  speak,  domestic 
service  ;  to  have  displeased  the  Court  was  not  a  reason 
for  leaving  it,  even  to  those  who  were  in  most  habitual 
intercourse  with  it;  and  a  pension  of  sixteen  hundred 
livres,  bestowed  on  Scarron  by  Fouquet,  the  superintend- 
ent of  the  finances  and  the  favorite  of  the  Cardinal,  soon 
supplied  the  place  of  that  which  had  been  refused  him  by 
the  queen. 

'   Scarron,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  iii.  p.  418.     He  adds  : 

"Je  confesse  un  péché  que  j'aurois  pu  celer, 
Mais  le  laissant  douteux,  je  croirois  lui  voler 
La  plus  grande  action  qu'il  ait  jamais  pu  faire." 
The  force  of  abnegation  could  surely  be  carried  no  further. 
*  The  Queen  of  Sweden. 
'  Scarron,  "Œuvres."  vol.  i.  part  2,  p    133. 


3  14  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

•  It  was,  however,  during  the  period  of  distress  which 
followed  the  suppression  of  his  first  pension,  that  a  new 
guest  sought  an  asylum  in  the  house  of  Scarron,  and  was 
received  with  his  ordinary  cordiality.  The  choice  was 
singular;  this  guest  was  a  nun.  A  lady  whom  he  had 
loved  in  his  youth,  Céleste  de  Palaiseau,  though  insensi- 
ble to  his  protestations  of  aifection,  had  afterward  yielded 
to  the  entreaties  of  a  wealthy  gentleman  who  had  prom- 
ised to  marry  her,  but  who,  finding  himself  rich  enough 
to  dispense  with  the.  performance'  of  his  promise,  had 
redeemed  himself  from  his  engagement  by  the  payment 
of  forty  thousand  francs.  With  this  sum,  Mile,  de  Palai- 
seau had  retired  to  the  Convent  of  the  Conception,  which 
had  just  been  established  at  Paris  ;  but  the  expenses  of 
the  convent  proving  greater  than  the  funds  it  possessed, 
reduced  the  nuns  to  bankruptcy,  and  obliged  them  to 
abandon  their  house  to  their  creditors,  and  to  seek  refuge, 
in  couples,  wherever  they  could.  In  the  position  in  which 
Scarron  was  placed.  Mile,  de  Palaiseau  thought  she  might 
appeal  to  his  generosity  without  causing  scandal  or  fear- 
ing a  refusal;  and  she  therefore  reminded  him  of  their 
former  affection,  Scarron  received  her  into  his  house 
with  her  companion,  and  afterward .  obtained  for  her  the 
priory  of  Argenteuil. 

But  Scarron,  though  wretched  enough  to  inspire  such 
confidence,  nevertheless  contemplated  matrimony,  and 
had  been  inspired  with  this  idea  by  a  young  and  pretty 
girl.  Whatever  uncertainty  may  prevail  with  regard  to 
the  adventures  which  led  to  the  marriage  of  Constant 
d'Aubigné,  the  father  of  Mile.  d'Aubigné,  and  which 
afterward  drove  his  family  from  Europe  to  America,  and 
from  America  to  Europe,  it  is  at  least  certain  that  his 
family  were  always  under  the  pressure  of  misfortune,  so 
as  to  be  at  length  reduced  to  the  lowest  degree  of  misery. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  345 

Under  these  circumstances,  Scarron  became  acquainted 
with  Mile.  d'Aubigné.  It  is  not  known  how  they  were 
first  brought  together.  Segrais  seems  to  ascribe  their 
acquaintance  to  a  project  which  Scarron  had  long  enter- 
tained. The  example  of  a  Commandeur  do  Poincy,  who 
had  been  cured  of  the  gout  by  voyage  to  Martinique,  had 
awakened  within  him  a  strong  desire  to  try  the  climate 
of  America  for  his  own  complaint.  "  My  dog  of  a  des- 
tiny," he  writes  to  Sarrasin,  in  a  letter  the  date  of  which 
can  not' now  be  ascertained,  "will  take  me  within  a 
month  to  the  "West  Indies.  I  have  invested  a  thousand 
crowns  in  the  new  Indian  Company,  which  proposes  to 
found  a  colony  at  the  distance  of  three  degrees  from  the 
Line,  on  the  banks  of  the  Orillana  and  Orinoco.'  Fare- 
well France!  farewell  Paris  !  farewell  ye  tigresses  disguised 
as  angels  !  farewell  Ménage,  Sarrasin,  and  Chavigny  !  I 
renounce  burlesque  poems,  comic  romances,  and  come- 
dies,, to  go  to  a  country  where  there  will  be  no  sham 
saintSj  no  devout  blacklegs,  no  inquisition,  no  winter  to 
murder  me,  no  inflammation  to  cripple  me,  and  no  war 
to  make  me  die  of  hunger."^  Scarron  said  farewell,  but 
never  departed  ;  we  do  not  know  what  hindered  him  ;  but 
his  mind  had  long  been  filled  with  this  project,  and  he 
found  it  beneficial  to  talk  about  a  country  into  which 
his  imagination  incessantly  transported  him,  with  all  the 
hopes  of  joy  and  health,  and  which  these  hopes  adorned 
for  him  with  all  the  colors  of  fairy-land.     At  this  period, 

'  Reconcile  who  can  Scarron  and  Segrais  upon  a  point  on  which  both 
seem  as  if  they  ought  to  have  been  equally  well-informed.  Segrais  saya  no- 
thing about  this  Indian  Company-  "  Scarron,''  he  says,  "  intended  to  form 
a  company,  the  direction  of  which  he  offered  to  me,  seeing  that  I  was  then 
more  prudent  than  men  usually  are  at  my  age,  for  I  was  then  only  twenty- 
five  or  twenty-six  years  old  ;  and  as  I  was  connected  with  nothing  at  that 
time,  I  was  not  averse  to  undertake  the  inanagement,  but  several  obstacles 
arose  wliich  prevented  the  execution  of  this  fine  project." — "  Segraisiana," 
p.  180.  *  Scarrcm,  "  Œuvres,"  vol.  i.  part  2,  pp.  38,  39. 

v.* 


316  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

as  Segrais  informs  us,  Mile.  d'Aubigné,  whom  he  always 
mentions  as  Mme.  de  Maintenon,  "  who  had  just  returned 
from  America  with  her  mother,  lived  opposite  Scarron's 
house/"  Did  she  reside  with  her  mother  ?  Segrais  would 
seem  to  say  so  ;  but  then  what  would  become  of  the  story 
told  of  the  servitude  and  oppression  to  which  she  was 
subjected  by  the  parsimonious  relative  who,  it  is  said, 
had  given  her  a  home?'  On  the  other  hand,  if  Mile. 
d'Aubigné  were  not  living  with  her  mother,  what  interest 
would  Scarron  be  likely  to  take  in  the  acquaintance  of 
a  girl  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  who  was  kept  in  such  subjec- 
tion that  she  was  hardly  ever  suffered  to  speak  ?  How- 
ever this  may  be,  Mile.  d'Aubigné  visited  Scarron;  she 
appeared  at  one  of  liis  parties  in  "too  short  a  frock,'" 
and,  unable  to  endure  this  humiliation,  she  began  to  cry 
on  entering  the  room.  Scarron,  as  it  appears,  took  little 
notice,  at  first,  of  the  child,  but  his  attention  was  ere 
long  aroused  by  a  letter  which  Mile.  d'Aubigné  wrote  to 
one  of  her  friends.  Mile,  de  Saint-Hermant.  This  letter 
was  shown,  we  know  not  for  what  reason,  to  Scarron,  and 
it  struck  him  all  the  more  because  it  was  totally  unex- 
pected ;  for,  in  his  opinion,  it  was  a  singular  phenomenon 
that  a  "little  girl,"*  who  did  not  know  how  to  enter  a 
room,  should  be  able  to  write  such  remarkably  clever  let- 
ters. He  entered  into  a  correspondence  with  her;  mutual 
confidence  was  soon  established  ;  and  Scarron  was  igno- 
rant of  none  of  the  details  of  a  position  well  calculated 
to  augment  the  interest  inspired  by  a  young  and  beau- 
tiful person.''  At  length,  as  Segrais  informs  us,  the 
wretched  state  of  the  affairs  of  both  mother  and  daugh- 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  126. 

'  Mme.  de  IN'euillant.  Seethcvarioufi  biographies  of  Scarron  and  Mme.  de 
MaiiUenoi).  ^  Scarrnii.  "(Eiivres,"  vol.  i.  part  2,  p.  .54.  ''  Ibid. 

''  In  vol.  i.  part  2,  p.  f4,  of  his  Works,  wc  find  a  letter  which  does  not 
mention  the  name  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  but  which  was 


PAUL  SCARRON.  347 

ter  determined  Scarron  to  ask  Mile.  d'Aubigné  in  mar- 
riage, though  she  was  not  more  than  fifteen  years  old." 
Was  tliis  unfortunate  situation  regarded  by  Scarron  as  a 
motive  of  interest  or  as  an  encouragement?  Segrais 
does  not  inform  us.  Was  he  influenced  by  the  compas- 
sion which  he  felt  for  his  pretty  neighbor,  or  by  his  desire 
to  obtain  a  companion  whose  care  might  alleviate  his 
sufferings  ?  This  is  a  question  which  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  decide;  pity  might  have  inspired  him  with  some 
other  project  than  that  of  marriage,  in  favor  of  a  pretty 
girl  of  fifteen;  and  reason  might  have  suggested  a  more 
experienced  nurse.  "What  a  plague  it  is  that  I  love 
you  !"  he  wrote  to  her  while  she  was  absent  in  Poitou, 
during  the  interval  of  two  years  which  elapsed  between 
the  time  when  he  first  made  her  acquaintance,  and  the 
period  of  his  marriage,  "and  what  a  folly  it  is  to  love  so 
much  !  Upon  my  soul,  I  am  continually  tempted  to 
start  for  Poitou,  notwithstanding  the  cold  weather.  Is 
not  this  sheer  madness  ?     Ah  !  come  back,  for  heaven's 

evidently  written  to  Mile.  d'Aubigné,  who  was  then  ill  in  Poitou.     This  let- 
ter contains  the  following  lines,  which,  at  the  present  day,  it  would  be 
thought  somewhat  strange  to  address  to  a  girl  of  fifteen  : 
"  Tandis  que,  la  cuisse  étendue 
Dans  un  lit  toute  nue, 
Vous  reposez  votre  corps  blanc  et  gras 
Entre  deux  sales  draps." 
He  also  expresses  his  fear  that  she  does  not  receive  "  all  the  care  that  she 
ought  to  have,"  and  his  grief  "  at  seeing  you,"  he  says,  "  as  unfortunate  as 
I  am  useless  to  you." 

-  Segrais  tells  us  ("  Segraisiana,"  p.  126,)  that  the  marriage  took  place 
after  two  years  ;  as  to  the  year  in  which  it  occurred,  Segrais  says  (p.  150.) 
that  it  was  in  1650,  and  (p.  157)  in  1651.  These  variations  are  natural 
enough  in  the  rccoHections  of  an  old  man,  not  collected  by  himself,  but  from 
what  he  had  been  heard  to  relate.  This  same  Segrais  tells  us  (p.  12,)  that 
he  was  born  in  1625,  and  informs  us  (p.  160,)  that  he  was  born  in  1624. 
From  these  contradictions  let  us  try  to  extract  the  truth.  Suppose  that 
Segrais,  born  in  1624,  was,  as  he  tells  us,  twenty-five  years  old  at  the  time 
of  the  proposed  voyage  to  America,  this  project  would  have  been  formed  in 
1649,  and  the  marriage  would  have  taken  place  two  years  afterward  in  1661. 
This  conjecture  is  at  least  probable. 


348  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

sake,  come  back,  since  I  am  fool  enough  to  take  it  into 
my  head  to  regret  absent  beauties  :  I  ought  to  know  my- 
self better,  and  to  consider  that  I  have  more  than  enough 
to  make  me  a  cripple  from  head  to  foot,  without  being 
troubled,  in  addition,  by  that  devilish  disorder  which  is 
called  impatience  to  see  you  ;  this  is  indeed  a  cursed  dis- 
ease." It  appears  to  me  that,  in  the  feeling  which  dic- 
tated this  letter,  there  is  something  more  than  mere  rea- 
son or  kindness.  Scarron  doubtless  had  not  entirely  for- 
gotten his  youth;  his  mind  was  more  than  ever  filled 
with  the  idea  of  a  voyage  to  America  ;  and  it.  is  impos- 
sible to  say  what  hopes  may  not  have  passed  through  the 
head  of  the  invalid.  At  length  Scarron  married;  gave 
up  the  notion  of  going  to  America  ;  was  not  cured  ;  and 
probably  renounced  all  hope  but  that  of  those  momentary 
alleviations  which  formed  the  happiness  of  his  existence, 
and  all  other  pleasures  but  those  which  he  might  derive 
from  the  society  of  an  amiable  person.  On  the  very  day 
of  his  marriage,  he  said,  speaking  of  his  wife  :  "  I  shall 
not  do  her  any  follies,  but  I  shall  teach  her  a  great 
many."  '  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  he  kept  his 
word  on  both  points. 

Of  all  persons,  however,  whom  he  could  have  chosen, 
Mme.  Scarron  was,  perhaps,  the  least  fitted  for  that  kind 
of  jokes  which  he  did  not  fail  to  make  at  her  expense  ;  ' 
and  she  was  also  the  only  person  capable  of  arresting,  or 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  97. 

*  Segrais,  talking  with  Scarron,  soon  after  his  marriage,  inquired,  whether 
seriously  or  not  I  can  not  tell,  what  hopes  and  means  he  had  of  obtaining 
a  posterity.  "Do  you  ofTcr,"  said  Scarron,  laughingly,  "to  do  nie  this 
pleasure  1  Maugin  here  will  do  me  that  service  whenever  I  please."  Mau- 
gin  was  his  valcC-dc-chamhre,  and  a  very  good  fellow.  "  Maugin,"'  continued 
Scarron,  "will  you  not  beget  a  child  for  my  wife?"  Maugin  replied: 
"  Yes,  sir,  if  it  please  God."  "  This  answer,  which  Maugin  had  to  repeat 
more  than  a  hundred  times,  made  all  those  laugh  who  were  accustomed  to 
visit  Scarron."  "  Scgraibiana,"  p.  150.  Perhaps  Mme.  Scarron  had  to 
laugh  with  the  rest. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  349 

at  least  moderating,  his  bad  habits.  "Before  they  had 
been  married  three  years,"  says  Segrais,  "  she  had  cor- 
rected him  of  a  great  many  things."  '  But  how,  when 
only  seventeen  years  old,  at  an  age  when  virtue  is  so 
timid,  and  modesty  is  afraid  even  to  intimate  that  it  is 
offended — ^how,  with  fewer  means  of  persuasion,  perhaps, 
than  a  woman  usually  possesses  over  her  husband,  did 
she  so  quickly  attain  to  sufficient  influence  to  overcome 
habits  so  deeply  rooted  ?  How  came  this  influence  to 
extend  over  all  those  visitors  whom  her  husband  had  ac- 
customed to  such  unrestrained  freedom  ?  Mme.  de  Cay- 
lus,  to  whom  the  fact  had  been  confirmed  by  all  the  con- 
temporaries of  her  aunt,^  tells  us  with  astonishment  that 
this  young  person,  "by  her  virtuous  and  modest  manners, 
inspired  so  nmch  respect  that  none  of  the  young  men  who 
surrounded  her  ever  ventured  to  utter  any  words  of  dou- 
ble meaning  in  her  presence."'  In  the  innocence  and 
modesty  of  youth,  there  is  something  which  all  hesitate 
to  wound,  for  fear  of  sullying  its  lustre  ;  and  youth  thus 
derives,  from  the  enthusiasm  peculiar  to  it,  an  austere 
courage,  which  sometimes  astonishes  reason  itself.  Scar- 
ron's  house,  meanwhile,  lost  none  of  its  charms  ;  for,  with 
the  strict  propriety  of  her  age,  Mme.  Scarron  had  intro- 
duced the  refined  tastes  of  a  mind  well  adapted  to  profit 
by  all  that  was  so  lavishly  displayed  around  her.  "Mme. 
de  Maintenon,"  says  Segrais,  "  is  indebted  for  her  wit  to 
Scarron,  and  she  knows  it  ;"  *  and  Scarron,  on  his  part, 
freely  acknowledged  the  fertility  of  the  soil  which  he  had 


'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  159. 

'  "  I  was  not  told  these  particulars  by  herself  alone,  but  by  my  father,  by 
the  Marquis  de  Beuvron,  and  by  many  others,  who  lived  in  the  house  at  the 
same  time."     "  Souvenirs  de  Caylus,"  p.  8. 

^  Ibid.  It  is  not  easy  to  reconcile  this  statement  with  the  account  which 
Scarron  himself  gives  of  the  tone  of  his  visitora,  in  a  letter  to  M.  de  Vivonna 

*  "  Segraisiana,"' p.  99.  r^...    ■. 


350  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

cultivated.  "Mme.  de  Maintenon,  who  was  a  lady  of 
perfect  wisdom,"  continues  Segrais,  "rendered  important 
services  to  Scarron  ;  for  he  consulted  her  regarding  his 
works,  and  profited  greatly  by  her  corrections."  ' 

The  wife,  however,  who  had  acquired  sufficient  influ- 
ence over  her  husband  to  curb  and  regulate  his  imagina- 
tion to  a  considerable  extent,  was  unable  to  introduce 
into  her  household  that  orderly  management  which  was 
required  by  the  state  of  their  finances.  Shortly  after  his 
marriage,  Scarron  had  lost  the  lawsuit  which  had  been 
his  plague  for  so  long  a  time.  This  is,  at  least,  stated 
as  a  fact  by  the  "Muse  de  Loret;"^  but  it  is  somewhat 
difficult  to  reconcile  this  assertion  with  another  statement 
equally  well  authenticated,  that  about  this  time  his  rela- 
tives restored  to  him  the  property  which  he  had  made 
over  to  them  as  a  gift.'     Whatever  this  property  may 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  127. 

'  A  kind  of  literary  gazette,  in  which  nearly  all  the  literary  events  of  the 
time  were  recorded.     In  the  number  for  June  9,  1653,  we  read  : 
"  M.  Scarron,  esprit  insigne, 
Et  qui  n'écrit  aucune  ligne, 
Du  moins  en  qualité  d'auteur, 
Qui  ne- plaise  fort  au  lecteur, 
Avoit  un  procès  d'importance 
Au  premier  parlement  de  France, 
Lequel  il  a  perdu  tout  net  ; 
Plusieurs  opinant  du  bonnet 
En  faveur  de  sa  belle-mère." 
The  gazetteer  then  compliments  Scarron  upon  this  circumstance  as  deliver- 
ing him  from  a  very  unpleasant  dilemma  ; 
"  Car  avec  sa  paralysie 
Ce  seroit  un  mal  plein  d'excès 
Qu'une  femme  avec  un  procès." 
One  thing  might  lead  ns  to  doubt  the  testimony  of  the  "Muse  de  Loret," 
and  that  is,  that   it  speaks  of  Scarron's   mother-in-law  as  alive,  whereas 
Scarron,   in    his   "  Factum,"   five   or   six    years    before,   mentions    her   as 
dead. 

^  In  several  passages  in  his  Works  he  mentions  this  gift  with  regret.    In 
his  "  Epitre  à  M.  Fourzeau,"  vol.  viii.  p.  132,  he  says  : 
"  Et  surtout  le  Seigneur  vous  garde 
D'être  donataire  entre  vifs  ;" 


PAUL  SCARRON.  351 

have  been,  it  is  probable  that  Scarron  was  never  able  to 
turn  it  to  much  account.  Ménage  tells  us  that  "  he  pos- 
sessed a  house,  which  he  sold  to  M.  Nublé  for  fourteen 
thousand  francs.  M.  Nublé,  thinking  it  was  worth  more, 
gave  him  sixteen  thousand.  Upon  this,  M.  Scarron  wrote 
to  me,  begging  me  to  call  upon  him.  At  first  he  told  me 
with  great  seriousness,  as  if  he  had  been  offended  :  '  M. 
Nublé  has  played  me  an  unprecedented  trick.  "What  do 
you  think  ?  I  sold  him  a  house  for  fourteen  thousand 
francs,  and  he  has  sent  me  sixteen  thousand.  I  repeat 
again,  sir,  this  is  contrary  to  all  custom  ;  and  I  have, 
therefore,  requested  you  to  call  upon  me  about  it."" 
Segrais,  who  relates  the  same  anecdote,  says  that  this 
house  of  Scarron's  was  situated  near  Amboise,  where  all 
the  property  of  Councilor  Scarron  lay.  Neither  Segrais 
nor  Ménage  fix  the  date  of  this  circumstance  ;  but  the 
natural  inference  from  their  story  is  that  Scarron  still 
possessed  some  property,  and  that  he  sold  it;  from  which 
we  may  further  conclude  that  he  spent  its  proceeds  in 
his  usual  way.  His  expenditure  and  embarrassments 
continued  after  his  marriage  just  as  before  it.  His  in- 
cessantly recurring  wants  were  insufficiently  supplied 
even  by  the  princely  liberality  of  Fouquet,  whose  taste 
for  literature  and  whose  natural  munificence  had  received 
an  additional  stimulus  in  favor  of  Scarron  from  the  re- 
commendation of  liis  friend  Pelisson,  and  the  friendship 

and  in  his  "  Epître  à  Mgr.  Rosteau,"  vol.  viii.  p.  234,  he  says  : 
"  Tu  sais  comme  on  m'a  guerdonné, 
Quand  en  sot  j"ai  mon  bien  donné.*' 
This   last   letter   is   dated   in    1648.     Segrais   tells   us   positively  (p.   88): 
"  When  he  married  he  had  no  property,  for  he  had  given  the  little  he  pos- 
sessed to  his  relatives  ;  but  they  returned  it  to  him."     The  same  Segrais 
tells  us  (p.  12G,)  that  when  Scarron  asked  Mile.  d'Aubigne  in  marriage,  he 
said  that  "until  they  started  for  the  Indies,  they  could  live  very  comfort- 
ably on  his  small  estate  and  his  marquiaatc  of  Quinetto." 
'  "  Ménagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  291.  ^     ,       ,    .  . 


352  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

of  Madame  Fouquet,  who  was  all  the  more  sensible  to 
the  charms  of  Madame  Scarron  because  she  had  nothing 
to  fear  from  the  effect  which  they  might  produce  upon 
her  husband.  We  are  told  that  a  present  of  a  thousand 
crowns,  sent  to  Scarron  by  the  hands  of  Pelisson,  were 
of  essential  service — 

"  Faire  lever  le  siège  ou  le  blocus 
Dont  créanciers,  gens  de  mauvais  visage, 
D'esprit  mauvais,  de  plus  mauvais  langage, 
Sourds  à  la  plainte  ainsi  qu'à  la  raison, 
Troubloient  souvent  la  paix  de  la  maison."' 

But  the  storm  thus  calmed  was  quickly  followed  by  other 
storms.  Scarron,  in  several  letters,  entreats  the  support 
of  Fouquet  to  obtain  the  concession  of  a  privilege  which 
would  "retrieve  his  position  in  the  world,"  and  yield  him 
an  income  of  four  or  five  thousand  livres.  ''  This  is,"  he 
says,  "the  last  hope  of  my  wife  and  myself."''  And  so 
gi-eat  was  his  distress  that,  on  one  occasion  when  he 
thought  his  request  had  been  rejected,  he  wrote  to  his 
protector  that  he  had  fallen  ill  of  grief,  and  added:  "If 
you  knew  what  we  have  to  fear,  and  what  will  become 
of  us  if  this  affair  does  not  succeed,  you  would  not  be 
astonished  at  the  despair  of  M.  de  Vissins  and  myself, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  to  speak  of  him  in  these  terms. 
Otherwise,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  poison  ourselves."' 
The  affair  succeeded  ;  Scarron  sold  his  privilege  and 
bought  it  again  ;    and  probably  always  made  bad  bar- 

'   "  Epitre  à  Pelisson,"  vol.  viii.  p.  108. 

*  "  Lettre  au  Surintendant,"  vol.  i.  part  2,  p.  116.  The  privilege  was  to 
establish  a  company  of  porters  at  the  gates  of  Paris. 

^  Ibid.  p.  106.  These  letters,  as  well  as  Scarron's  various  works,  are  so 
carelessly  arranged,  even  in  the  best  editions,  that  the  order  of  facts,  which 
might  have  been  used  to  gain  at  least  a  presumption  of  the  dates,  is  con- 
tinually transposed.  For  cxainph;,  vvc  find  in  a  letter  contained  on  p.  104, 
the  continuation  of  an  affair  which  is  begun  on  p.  116.  Thie  M.  de  Viesina 
was  apparently  Scarron's  partner  in  this  business. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  353 

gains.  At  another  time,  his  letters  inform  us  that  he 
had  promised,  for  six  hundred  pistoles,  to  use  his  influ- 
ence with  the  Superintendent  of  the  Finances  in  reference 
to  an  affair  on  which  he  had  to  decide  ;  and  when  a  fa- 
vorable decision  had  been  given,  Scarron  applied  to  the 
Superintendent  himself,  in  order  to  obtain  from  the  par- 
ties interested  the  paiyment  of  the  sum  which  they  had 
promised,  but  now  refused.  The  task  of  obtaining  money 
occupied  all  that  portion  of  his  life  which  ho  did  not  em- 
ploy in  spending  it. 

Amid  his  embarrassments,  misfortunes  and  gayety, 
Scarron  was  fast  approaching  his  end.  His  body,  worn 
out  by  disease,  could  no  longer  continue  the  conflict  it 
had  maintained  for  twenty  years.  He  knew  that  his 
death  was  at  hand,  and  he  contemplated  its  arrival  with 
a  tranquillity  which  was  perhaps  more  astonishing  than 
the  vivacity  of  mind  which  he  preserved  to  the  last  mo- 
ment of  his  life.  When  Segrais  was  about  to  start  for 
Bordeaux,  whither  the  Court  had  proceeded  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  king's  marriage,  he  called  to  talce  leave  of 
Scarron.  "  I  feel,"  said  the  latter,  "  that  I  shall  soon 
die  ;  and  my  only  regret  is  that  I  can  leave  no  property 
to  my  wife,  who  is  a  person  of  infinite  merit,  and  whom 
I  have  every  imaginable  reason  to  praise."  ^  Shortly 
afterward  a  fatal  crisis  increased  his  ordinary  sufferings  ; 
he  was  attacked  by  a  hiccough  so  violent  that  his  feeble 
frame  seemed  scarcely  able  to  withstand  it.  "If  I  re- 
cover," he  said,  during  an  interval  of  calmness,  "I  will 
write  a  tremendous  satire  upon  the  hiccough."  "His 
friends,"  says  Ménage,  who  relates  this  circumstance, 
"expected  he  would  announce  a  totally  different  resolu- 
tion.""    But  Scarron  had  now  reached  the  last  stage  of 

'  "  Segraisiana,"  p.  127. 

^  "  Ménagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  290. 


354  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

the  disease  which  had  tortured  him  so  long;  and  he  was 
soon  reduced  to  extremities.  "  My  children,"  he  said  to 
his  relatives  and  domestics,  who  stood  weeping  around 
his  bed,  "you  will  never  weep  as  much  as  I  have  made 
you  laugh."  '  Segrais,  on  his  return  from  Bordeaux,  saw 
nothing  of  Scarron  ;  but,  being  unaware  of  his  death,  he 
went  to  visit  him.  "When  I  arrived  at  his  door,"  iie 
says,  "  I  saw  them  carrying  out  of  his  house  the  chair  on 
which  he  always  used  to  sit,  and  which  had  just  been 
sold  by  auction."  "  So  éoon  had  the  little  that  remained 
of  this  singular  man,  and  even  the  remembrance  of  his 
habits,  disappeared  from  that  house  which  had  so  long 
been  animated  by  his  presence. 

With  Scarron  perished  in  France  that  kind  of  poetry 
which  he  had  so  largely  contributed  to  render  popular. 
It  is  a  fantastic  î^tyle,  devoid  of  rules  and  of  fixed  char- 
acter, the  whole  secret  of  which  consists  in  the  art  of 
employing  falsehood  with  skill  ;  of  substituting,  for  the 
true  relations  of  objects,  relations  which  are  entirely  con- 
trary to  their  nature  ;  and  of  thus  surprising  the  imagin- 

'   "Ménagiana,"  vol.  iii.  p.  291. 

"  "Segraisiana,"  p.  150.  Segrais  places  Scarron's  death  in  the  month 
of  June,  1660;  and  the  circumstance  of  his  journey  to  attend  the  king's 
marriage,  which  actually  took  place  at  that  period,  would  not  allow  us  to 
suppose  him  mistaken,  if,  on  the  other  hand,  we  did  not  find  the  same  news 
chronicled  in  the  "  Muse  de  Loret,'"  under  date  of  the  10th  October.  We 
also  possess  a  letter  of  Scarron's,  dated  September  5,  1660  (vol.  i.  part  2, 
11.  160)  ;  but  is  this  date  correct  Î  He  mentions  in  this  letter  that  his  aflair 
has  just  been  signed,  and  we  know  of  no  other  aflair  of  his  than  the  com- 
pany of  porters,  which  must  have  been  arranged  long  before.  His  letter  to 
the  Count  dc  Vivonne,  which  has  already  been  frequently  quoted,  bears  the 
date  of  June  12,  1600,  and  this  date  can  not  be  contested,  as  the  letter  turns 
chiefly  upon  the  king's  marriage,  and  the  journey  to  Bordeaux,  which  had 
already  commenced.  "  I  am  continually  growing  worse,"  he  says  in  this 
letter,  "and  I  find  myself  advancing  toward  my  end  faster  than  I  could 
wish."  It  is  true  that  this  letter  is  long,  interspersed  with  prose  and 
verse,  and  that  it  contains  details  which  prove  that  no  alteration  had  as 
yet  been  made  in  Scarron's  mode  of  life  ;  but  his  habits  had  been  so  long 
associated  with  his  disease,  that  they  may  have  continued  unchanged  until 
1)18  death. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  355 

ation  with  impressions  exactly  opposite  to  those  which 
it  expected  to  receive,  amusing  the  mind  by  what  it 
does  not  believe,  and  deriving  pleasure  from  the  very 
impropriety  of  the  images  presented  to  its  notice.  As 
the  imitation  of  reality  is  never  the  object  aimed  at  in 
burlesque  composition,  in  judging  of  works  of  this  kind 
we  have  no  means  of  comparison  derived  from  real  ob 
jects,  and  are  guided  by  none  of  those  rules  of  tast*» 
which  reason  deduces  from  the  nature  of  things.  We 
can  not  even  assign  any  determinate  form  to  burlesque. 
For  things  which  really  exist,  there  is  only  one,  or  a  few 
modes  of  existence  ;  but  the  number  of  modes  in  which 
they  do  not  exist  is  incalculable.  "  The  reverse  of  the 
truth,"  says  Montaigne,  "has  a  hundred  thousand  shapes 
and  an  indefinite  field.  A  thousand  routes  lead  astray 
from  the  centre,  but  one  leads  to  it."'  "We  may  travesty 
in  a  thousand  ways  that  which  we  can  properly  delineate 
in  one  shape  only  ;  there  may  therefore  be  as  many  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  burlesque  as  there  are  turns  of  mind  and 
imagination  applied  to  this  kind  of  composition.  Thus 
the  burlesque  of  Scarron  is  by  no  means  identical  with 
that  of  Rabelais,  and  it  is  useless  to  inquire  in  what  re- 
spects either  of  them  may  have  been  indebted  to  the 
Italian  burlesque  poets  who  were  their  contemporaries  or 
predecessors  ;  for  that  which  they  have  borrowed  would 
be  precisely  that  which  would  not  be  worth  remarking 
in  their  works,  the  piquancy  of  which  can  consist  only 
in  their  utterly  unexpected  originality,  Rabelais  was 
doubtless  indebted  to  models  for  the  gigantic  subject  of 
his  work,  but  this  is  of  very  little  importance  ;  had  the 
subject  been  entirely  his  own  invention,  if  this  were  his 
sole  merit,  Rabelais  would  have  been  entirely  unkno^vn 
at  the  present  day.  But  when  the  subject  was  once 
'  Montaigne,  "  Essais,"  book  i.  chap.  9. 


356     •  CORNÊILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

given,  the  manner  in  which  Rabelais  treated  it,  the  points 
which  he  drew  out  of  it,  the  kind  of  relative  truth  which 
he  imparted  to  the  details  of  a  fantastic  picture — these 
belong  to  the  peculiar  nature  of  his  imagination,  and  con- 
stitute the  originality  and  charm  of  his  work. 

The  subject  of  ^'  Typhon"  belongs  still  less  to  Scarron, 
than  his  "  Grand-Grousier,"  his  "  Grargantua,"  and  his 
"  Pantagruel"  belong  to  Rabelais.    Scarron's  "  Typhon" — 

"  A  qui  cent  bras  longs  comme  gaules 
Sortoient  de  deux  seules  épaules," 

with  his  brothers  Mimas,  Enceladus,  and  others — 

"  Qui  certes  ne  lui  cédoient  guère 
Tant  à  déraciner  les  monts 
Qu'à  passer  ces  rivières  sans  ponts, 
Mettre  les  plus  hautes  montagnes 
Au  niveau  des  plates  campagnes, 
Et  de  grands  pins  faire  bâtons 
Qui  n'étoient  encore  assez  longs  ;" 

ail  the  details  of  the  wondrous  exploits  of  this  race  of 
giants  contain  nothing  which  had  not  long  ago  been  far- 
surpassed  by  the  heroes  of  Rabelais,  of  the  "  G-igantea,"' 
and  of  a  host  of  other  works  of  the  same  kind.  But  a 
new  mode  of  bringing  these  singular  personages  into  ac- 
tion had  presented  itself  to  the  original  imagination  of 
Scarron  ;  although  it  is  not  well  suited  to  the  subject 
which  he  had  chosen  out  of  imitation,  it  is  peculiarly  his 
own  ;  it  is  characteristic  of  the  peculiar  conformation  of 
a  mind  which  could  see  things  only  from  a  certain  point 
of  view,  and  could  describe  them  only  as  it  saw  them. 
After  having  described  these  monstrous  children  of  earth, 
for  what  purposes  will  Scarron  employ  them?  What 
motive  will  rouse  them  to  rebellion  against  the  gods,  and 

'  An  Italian  burlesque  poem,  of  the  sixteenth  century.  See  Ginguené 
"Histoire  littéraire  d'Italie,"  vol.  v.  p.  661. 


PAUL  SCARRON.  357 

kindle  a  war  which  will  throw  all  Olympus  into  confu- 
sion ?     One  Sunday,  Typhon, 

"  Après  avoir  très-bien  dîné," 

proposes  to  his  brothers  to  have  a  game  of  skittles.  His 
proposal  is  accepted  ;  tut,  while  playing,  Mimas  awk- 
wardly hits  him  with  a  skittle  on  the  ankle.  Typhon,  in 
a  rage,  seizes  upon  both  balls  and  skittles,  and  hurls 
them  through  the  skies  with  such  vigor  that  they  pene- 
trate into  Heaven,  and  knock  over  the  table  and  break 
the  glasses  of  Jupiter,  who,  being  rather  more  drunk  than 
usual  on  that  day,  jumps  up, 

'  Jure  deux  fois  par  1' Alcoran  ; 
C'étoit  son  serment  ordinaire," 

and  sends  Mercury  to  earth  to  command  the  giants,  on 
pain  of  incurring  his  wrath  and  thunderbolts,  to  send 
him,  before  the  end  of  the  week,  a  hundred  Venice  glass- 
es to  repair  the  loss  occasioned  by  the  overthrow  of  his 
sideboard.  ,     ,      . 

From  this  specimen  it  is  easy  to  perceive  the  character 
of  Scarron's  burlesque.  All  the  pleasantry  which  he  can 
educe  from  it  depends  entirely  upon  those  common  or 
puerile  habits,  and  those  petty  and  vulgar  incidents  of 
which  he  composes  his  portraitures  of  the  marvelous  per- 
sonages whom  he  introduces  into  his  productions.  Mer- 
cury, on  crossing  Helicon,  is  regaled  by  the  Muses  with 
a  "  pot  of  cherries," 

"Et  du  dedans  d'un  grand  pâté, 
Qu'Apollon,  leur  Dieu  tutélairé, 
Depuis  peu  leur  avoit  fait  faire." 

Being  compelled  to  pass  a  night  on  earth.  Mercury 
sleeps  at  the  top  of  a  tree,  for  fear  of  robbers  ;  and  all 
that  he  obtains  from  the  giants,  in  answer  to  his  eloquent 


3Ô8  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

orations,  is  the  refrain  of  a  popular  song,  and  the  promise 
of  a  sound  box  on  the  ears  if  he  talks  any  longer.  War 
is  declared,  and  Jupiter  calls  upon  the  Sun  to  sell  him 
some  of  his  exhalations  for  the  manufacture  of  thunder- 
holts  : 

"  Le  soleil  dit  qu'il  en  avoit, 
Mais  que  déjà  on  lui  devoit 
D'argent  une  somme  assez  bonne, 
Qu'au  ciel  on  ne  payoit  personne." 

He  also  complains  that  the  last  materials  he  supplied 
were  only  used — 

"  A  faire  pétards  et  fusées  ;" 

but  eventually  he  does  not  refuse  his  assistance.  Jupiter 
appears  armed  for  battle,  mounted  on  his  eagle,  and 
holding — 

"Un  grand  tonnerre  à  son  côté." 

Mars  passes  his  time  in  smoking  tobacco  and  drinking 
beer  : 

"  Et  de  vouloir  l'en  empêcher, 
C'étoit  vouloir  au  sourd  prêcher, 
Car  il  n'étoit  pas  amiable, 
Ains  juroit  Dieu  comme  un  vrai  diable." 

Jupiter,  on  his  side,  calls  Venus  all  the  bad  names  that 
she  deserves,  and  the  tone  of  the  other  gods  corresponds 
with  that  of  the  most  powerful  of  them  all.  In  a  word, 
Scarron  has  travestied  Olympus  into  a  family  of  vulgar 
citizens. 

Nothing,  therefore,  could  have  been  less  adapted  to 
Scarron's  turn  of  mind  than  the  subject  which  he  had 
chosen.  As  he  was  entirely  destitute  of  that  imaginative 
power  which  can  forcibly  depict  the  fantastic  and  extra- 
ordinary, and  as  he  was,  on  the  contrary,  endowed  with 


PAUL  SCARRON.  36S 

the  faculty  of  vividly  distinguishing  all  the  details  of  a 
common  and  trivial  truth,  he  has  overloaded  his  person- 
ages with  such  details,  although  the  position  in  which  he 
has  placed  them  would  seem  to  destine  them  to  surprise 
us  rather  by  the  singularity  of  their  behavior  than  by  any 
other  circumstance.  It  was  not  worth  while  to  describe 
to  us  gods  and  giants,  if  he  intended  to  make  them  act 
constantly  like  ordinary  men,  and  never  to  recall  our 
,  attention  to  the  marvelous  greatness  of  their  nature, 
which  is  so  well  adapted  to  bring  the  littleness  of  their 
interests  and  actions  into  strong  relief.  Jupiter,  dis- 
guised as  Cassandra,  would  be  amusing  enough,  if  the 
Cassandra  who  is  always  present  to  our  view  did  not 
make  us  ever  forget  the  existence  of  Jupiter. 

Taking  the  nature  of  Scarron's  talent  into  consider- 
ation, the  idea  of  the  "  Virgile  Travesti"  must  be  regard- 
ed as  infinitely  happier  than  that  of  the  "  Typhon."  It 
may  have  been  furnished  him  by  the  "  Enéide  Travestita" 
of  Griovanni  Battista  Lalli,  an  Italian  poet,  who  may 
almost  be  called  his  contemporary  ;  '  but  "  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  title,"  says  Ménage,  "  the  two  works  are 
entirely  different."^  The  choice  of  such  a  subject,  more 
over,  was  certainly  not  very  difficult  ;  but  it  was  admir- 
ably adapted  to  call  forth  Scarron's  powers.  Here  he 
was  not  required  to  create  exalted  personages,  in  order  to 
render  them  afterward  absurd  and  ridiculous.  He  found 
ready  made  to  his  hand,  noble  lines  which  he  might 
parody,  imposing  recollections  which  he  might  load  with 
laughable  details,  splendid  imagery  which  he  might  trav- 
esty, and  throughout  the  work,  a  contrast  naturally  ex- 
isting between  his  subject  and  the  manner  in  which  he 
was  disposed  to  treat  it.  Virgil  always  saved  him  at 
least  half  his  trouble.     We  might  laugh  to  see  a  man 

'  LaUi  died  in  1637.  ^   *  "  Ménagiana,"  vol.  i.  p.  188. 


'560  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

who  is  endeavoring  to  save  something  from  his  burning 
house,  carefully  folding  up  : 

"  Six  chemises,  dont  son  pourpoint 
Fut  trop  juste  de  plus  d'un  point," 

and  prudently  ordering  his  son  to  carry  off  "  the  snuf- 
fers ;"  but  the  household  economy  thus  ascribed  to  the 
son  of  Venus  and  the  lover  of  Dido,  and  these  details 
when  related  by  a  king  to  a  queen  in  regard  to  so  great 
an  event  as  the  sack  of  Troy,  acquire  a  comic  value 
which  would  not  be  possessed  by  a  meaner  subject  or 
humbler  personages.  The  remembrance  which  we  retain 
of  the  despair  and  lamentations  of  Dido  imparts  addi- 
tional pleasantry  to  the  reproaches  which,  in  the  "Vir- 
gile Travesti,"  she  heaps  upon  iEneas,  whom  she  finally 
calls  a  "  lackey,"  and  threatens  to  pursue  him  after  her 
death, 

"  Pour  lui  faire  partout  hou,  hou  !" 

All  the  piquancy  possessed  by  the  "  Virgile  Travesti," 
is  derived  from  contrasts  of  this  kind,  and  from  that  pecu- 
liar turn  of  Scarron's  imagination,  which  I  have  already 
noticed  in  my  remarks  on  the  "  Typhon,"  and  which 
never  represents  any  objects  to  him  except  under  their 
most  common  forms,  and  accompanied  by  the  most  fa- 
miliar details  of  ordinary  life.  In  his  view  the  marvel- 
ous disappears,  and  the  extraordinary  vanishes,  to  make 
room  for  that  which  is  of  daily  occurrence.  He  can  not 
add  to  the  monstrous  any  element  of  the  grotesque  ;  and 
thu,s  his  Harpies,  with — 

"  Leurs  pattes  en  chapon  rôti, 
Leur  nez  long,  leur  ventre  aplati," 

are  not  stranger  figures  than  those  of  Virgil  ;  but  when 


PAUL  SCARRON.  3(51 

eating  and  spoiling  the  dinner  of  the  Trojans  they  begin 
to  sing  "drinking  songs,"  the  Harpies,  transformed  into  a 
pack  of  drunkards  at  a  public  house,  acquire  a  very  amus- 
ing character.  -  '      ^_'  ■'•     ;  -  '•■  • 

A  sort  of  childish  naturalness  mingles  with  the  actions 
and  feelings  of  all  his  personages;  thus  when  ^Eneas,  in 
the  midst  of  burning  Troy,  is  desirous  to  avenge  upon 
Helen  the  wrongs  of  his  country,  by  freeing  her  for  ever 
from — 

"  La  peine  de  se  plus  moucher," 

Venus,  his  mother,  appears  suddenly  to  him,  and  stops 
him  with  a  hard  rap  on  the  knuckles  : 

"  Ce  coup,  dit-il,  dont  ma  main  fut  cinglée, 
Et  dont  j'eus  l'âme  un  peu  troublée. 
Me  fit  dire,  en  quoi  j'eus  grand  tort, 
Certain  mot  qui  l'oflensa  fort. 
Elle  me  dit,  rouge  au  visage  ; 
'  Vraiment  je  vous  croyois  plus  sage  ; 
Fi,  fi,  je  ne  vous  aime  plus.' 
— '  Je  suis  de  quatre  doigts  perclus,' 
Lui  dis-je  :   '  et  qui  diable  ne  jure 
Alors  qu'on  reçoit  telle  injure  r — 
'  Eh  bien,  ne  jurez  donc  jamais,' 
Dit-elle. — "  Je  vous  le  promets,' 
Lui  dis-je,  '  et  trêve  de  houssine, 
Car  il  n'est  divin,  ni  divine 
A  qui,  s'il  m'en  faisoit  autant 
Je  ne  le  rendisse  à  l'instant.'  " 

Sometimes  the  opinions  of  the  author  himself  are  expressed 
with  the  most  original  simplicity  ;  thus,  after  having 
described  the  capture  of  G-anymede,  and  told  how  the 
youth's  dog  barked  uselessly  at  the  ravisher,  he  exelaimui 
with  a  burst  of  virtuous  indignation  : 

■■  Que  le  chien  de  Jean  de  Nivelle, 
Auprès  de  ce  mâtin  de  bien 
Est  un  abominable  chien." 

But,  whether  he  speaks  in  the  name  of  his  characters, 


363  ,     COilNElLLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

or  in  his  own  name,  the  ideas  most  familiar  to  the  habits 
of  his  own  life  are  always  brought  into  greatest  promin- 
ence by  Scarron.  His  Sibyl,  in  order  to  appease  Charon's 
indignation  at  being  required  to  admit  a  living  man, into 
his  boat,  enumerates  the  good  qualities  of  ^Eneas,  say- 
ing that  he  was — 

"  Point  Mazarin,  fort  honnête  homme." 

And  ^neas,  in  despair  at  seeing  his  ships  on  fire,  im- 
plores Jupiter  to  send  a  little  of  that  rain,  which  he  some- 
times pours  forth  with  such  abundance — 

"  Alors  qu'on  s'en  passeroit  bien, 
Qu'un  chapeau  neuf  ne  dure  rien." 

No  one  is  better  able  than  Scarron  to  discern,  in  an 
event,  all  the  little  circumstances  which  may  enter  into 
it;  thus  when  ^Eneas,  notwithstanding  the  advice  of  the 
Sibyl,  draws  his  sword  to  disperse  the  shades  who  flit 
about  him  on  his  entrance  into  the  infernal  regions,  the 
poet  does  not  fail  to  make  him  fall  on  his  face,  toppled 
over  by  the  impetus  of  a  blow  with  which  he  had  at- 
tempted to  transfix  a  Grorgon,  whose  fantastic  body  offer- 
ed no  resistance  to  his  thrust  ;  and  he  then  dilates  on 
the  bad  temper  of  ^^ïlneas — 

"Jurant  en  chartier  embourbé," 

and  on  the  politeness  with  which  the  Sibyl  offers  him  her 
hand  to  help  him  up.  His  pictures,  on  account  of  the 
details  of  which  they  are  composed,  are  always  charac- 
terized by  a  sort  of  trivial  truthfulness,  well  adapted  to 
give  piquancy  and  appropriateness  to  the  application  which 
he  makes  of  them  to  lofty  objects.  But  this  truthfulness 
is  sometimes  devoid  of  interest  ;  and  these  details  are  not 
always  worthy  of  occupying  attention,  or  capable  of  ex- 


PAUL  tJCARRON.  363 

citing  laughter.  For  example,  Scarron  tells  us  that 
/Eneas,  being  desirous  to  honor  with  an  offering  of  in- 
cense the  shade  of  his  father,  who  has  come  to  visit  him, 
fails  in  his  attempt: 

"  Et  remplit  sa  chambre  de  braise, 
Ayant  donné  contre  une  chaise  ;" 

a  circumstance  which,  though  not  wanting  in  truthful- 
ness, is  utterly  destitute  of  pleasantry.  And  circum- 
-stances  of  this  kind  are  not  of  rare  occurrence  in  Scar- 
ron's  works  ;  he  never  rejects  any  insignificant  details 
which  may  occur  to  his  mind,  and  he  often  unreasonably 
protracts  most  witless  reflections,  through  a  series  of 
namby-pamby  verses  which  are  more  prosaic  than  even 
prose  would  be  permitted  to  be.  Expressions  frequently 
more  trivial  than  original  strike  us,  more  from  their  con- 
trast to  the  object  to  which  they  refer,  than  from  their 
adaptation  to  the  image  which  the  poet  wishes  to  con- 
vey :  and  finally,  his  gayety,  though  rarely  indecent,  too 
often  reminds  us  of  that  school-boy  blackguardism  which 
is  inaccessible  to  disgust,  and  which  is  never  embarrassed 
by  the  feelings  it  may  occasion.  Hence  it  is  that  the 
"  Virgile  Travesti,"  some  passages  of  which  are  worthy 
to  be  quoted  as  models  of  truly  original  gayety,  can  not 
be  read  consecutively  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  that 
it  leaves  no  impression  on  the  memory  but  the  recollec- 
tion of  a  few  lines,  and  the  general  impression  of  a  buf- 
foonery which  often  causes  greater  fatigue  than  amuse- 
ment. 

This  is  not  the  case  in  reference  to  the  "Roman  Com- 
ique." "  Scarron's  '  Roman  Comique,'  "  says  Segrais, 
"had  not  a  dignified  object,  as  I  have  told  the  author 
himself;  for  he  amuses  himself  by  criticising  the  actions 
of  certain  comedians,  which  is  too  mean  an  occupation 


364  CORNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

for  such  a  man  as  he  is."  '  We  are  not  aware  of  Scar- 
ron's  reply  to  these  observations  of  Segrais  ;  he  probably 
defended  his  work,  and  most  probably  not  on  the  best 
grounds  ;  for  an  author  is  seldom  aware  of  his  most  effect- 
ive means  of  defense.  Scarron,  however,  had  excellent 
reasons  to  adduce;  but  Segrais  was  perhaps  incapable 
of  understanding  them.  At  this  period  criticism  did  not 
exist,  and  no  rules  of  taste  had  as  yet  been  firmly  estab- 
lished by  reason,  wliich  is  the  true  foundation  of  taste; 
every  one  formed  his  opinions  according  to  his  own  special 
turn  of  mind,  and  absolutely  rejected  whatever  he  was 
unable  to  appreciate.  Segrais,  whose  imagination  had 
spent  all  its  life  in  bergeries  and  Court  romances,  was 
naturally  somewhat  insensible  to  the  influence  of  that  in- 
genuous truthfulness  which  presents  itself  to  view,  devoid 
even  of  the  charms  of  a  careful  toilet.     However-^ 

"  S'il  n'est  pas  de  serpent,  ni  de  monstre  odieux 
Qui,  par  l'art  incité,  ne  puisse  plaire  aux  yeux,"^ 

with  still  greater  reason,  art  will  succeed  in  adapting  to 
our  delicate  taste  subjects  whose  only  fault  is  that  they 
are  somewhat  removed  from  those  ideas  of  elegance  to 
which  we  are  accustomed. 

The  principal  personages  in  Scarron's  romance  are  not 
mean,  although  he  has  not  made  them  all  respectable. 
On  our  entrance  into  the  town  of  Mans,  in  which  the 
scene  is  laid,  amidst  the  grotesque  description  of  a  troop 
of  poor  country  actors  en  déshabille,  the  author  at  onco 
inspires  us  with  a  favorable  opinion  of  his  hero,  the  actor 
Destin,  "a  young  man  as  poor  in  clothes  as  he  was  rich 
in  good  looks,"  and  whose  rather  irregular  accoutrement 
does  not  destroy  the  impression  produced  by  these  first 

'   ■' Sc^rraisiana,"  p.  194. 
^  Poilcau,  ",\rt  Poétique." 


PAUL  SCAIIRON.  365 

words  of  the  author.  The  impression  is  kept  up  and 
strengthened  by  the  conduct  of  the  young  man  himself, 
whose  noble  sentiments,  in  so  inferior  and  undignified  a 
position,  are  explained  by  the  education  he  had  received, 
and  the  necessity  which  had  compelled  him  to  adopt  his 
present  mode  of  life.  The  decency  preserved  by  his  com- 
panions, L'Etoile,  Angélique,  and  La  Caverne,  though  a 
rare  quality  in  strolling  actresses,  is  nevertheless  in  strict 
accordance  with  the  probability  required  in  a  romance,  the 
chief  object  of  which  is  not  to  extol  the  virtue  and  senti- 
ments of  its  heroines.  This  decency  is  maintained  in 
the  midst  of  scenes  of  every  kind,  which  occur  during 
the  journey  çf  the  troop,  whose  adventures  in  the  town 
and  neighborhood  of  Mans  constitute  the  subject  of  the 
"Roman  Comique."  Some  characters,  inferior  to  these 
at  least  in  their  sentiments,  undertake  the  more  comical 
adventures  ;  and  thus  allow  to  the  principal  personages 
a  dignity  which  does  not  at  first  sight  seem  consistent 
with  their  profession,  and  the  sorry  trim  in  which  they 
are  presented. 

We  might  inquire  of  Segrais  in  what  respect  this  pro- 
fession and  its  attendant  circumstances  seem  to  him  to 
injure  the  proprieties  of  romance  ;  why  romance  any 
more  than  comedy,  should  be  deprived  of  the  right  of 
treating  undignified  subjects  ;  and  in  what  particulars 
the  actions  of  a  few  comedians  are  more  low  and  vulgar 
than  the  household  quarrels  of  a  woodman  and  his  wife,* 
the  knaveries  of  a  valet,'  or  the  flatteries  of  an  intriguing 
person  who  is  desirous  to  get  money  from  a  miser  ?  * 
Wherever  talent  is  placed  in  its  right  position,  the  sub- 
ject is  well  chosen;  and  nowhere  was  Scarron's  talent 

'  See  Molière's  "  Médecin  mal<rré  lui." 

'  See  the  "Fourberies  de  Scapin  " 

*  See  Molière'' s  "  L'Avare."  and  other  pieces. 


3G(Î  COPtNEILLE'S  CONTEMPORARIES. 

more  rightly  placed  than  in  the  "Roman  Comique  ;"  and 
nowhere  has  it  produced  more  complete  effect.  These 
personages  are  not  presented  to  us  disfigured  in  a  fantas- 
tical manner  in  order  to  excite  our  mirth;  they  are  ex- 
hibited to  our  view  under  the  natural  forms  of  their  con- 
dition, position,  and  character  ;  they  are  laughable  be- 
cause they  are  ridiculous,  and  not  because  an  effort  has 
been  made  to  render  them  absurd.  Their  pleasantry 
springs  from  their  very  nature.  There  is  something  truly 
original  in  the  character  of  La  Rancune,  a  misanthropies, 
envious,  vain  scoundrel,  whose  imperturbable  coolness 
has,  nevertheless,  gained  for  him  a  sort  of  superiority 
and  respect.  The  figure  of  Ragotin  is  ever  the  same — 
always  equally  merry  in  the  various  adventures  in  which 
he  is  involved  by  his  love  or  his  foolishness.  The  scenes 
in  which  these  different  actors  appear  are  varied  ;  the 
descriptions  are  vivid,  animated,  and  striking;  in  a  word, 
although  the  "Roman  Comique"  is  not  marked  by  that 
force  of  observation,  and  that  fund  of  philosophical  truth 
which  place  "  Gil  Bias"  in  the  first  rank  of  productions 
of  this  kind,  we  find  it  characterized  at  least  by  great 
fidelity  in  the  reproduction  of  external  and  laughable 
forms,  by  consummate  talent  in  their  arrangement  and 
delineation,  by  an  imagination  most  fruitful  in  the  inven- 
tion of  details,  by  a  careful  choice  of  circumstances,  and 
by  a  measure  of  pleasantry  which  we  were  not  perhaps 
prepared  to  expect  from  the  author  :  in  a  word,  we  find 
in  it  all  those  qualities  which  can  entitle  it  to  high  praise, 
not  as  a  burlesque  composition,  but  as  its  name  indicates, 
as  a  really  comic  work. 

I  shall  say  nothing  of  Scarron's  comedies — works 
which  their  complicated  and  'uninteresting  plots,  their 
trivial  and  unnatural  folly,  and  their  strained  burlesque, 
have  consigned  to  that  oblivion  which  they  so  rich^" 


PAUL  SCARRON.  367 

serve.  If  one  of  the  Jodelets  and  Doni  Japhet  (VArnûnie 
have  sometimes  re-appeared  in  our  own  days,  it  has  only 
been  by  the  aid  of  the  talent  of  some  clever  actor,  who 
has  redeemed  the  tediousness  of  these  ignoble  caricatures, 
and  disguised  their  excessive  platitude  by  his  excessive 
grotesqueness.  Some  of  Scarron's  "  Nouvelles,"  Dedica- 
tions and  Letters,  with  his  "  Factum,"  and  a  very  few 
short  poems,  are  the  sources  to  which  we  may  still  look 
for  the  piquant  originality  of  that  mind  and  character, 
the  singular  combination  of  which  gained  Scarron  a  repu- 
tation which,  in  his  own  times,  was  superior  to  that  which 
his  works  deserved  ;  and  which  at  the  present  day  has 
fallen  below  that  which  his  talent  might  have  merited  if, 
less  spoilt  by  the  taste  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived  and 
the  fluency  of  the  style  in  which  he  achieved  such  bril- 
liant success,  he  had  been  compelled  to  cultivate  to  a 
greater  extent  those  natural  gifts  which  had  been  so 
abundantly  lavished  upon  him.        , 


APPENDIX 


Appendix  A. — Page  130. 

PIERRE   CORNEILLE,    THE   FATHER, 

AND  THE  LETTERS  OF    NOBILITY    GRANTED   TO    HIS    FAMILY   BY    LOUIS    XIII., 
AND  LOUIS  XIV.,   IN   1637  AND   1669. 

Extract  from  a  Memoir  read  by  M.  Floquet  at  the  academy  of  Rouen, 
January  20,  1837. 

The  readiness  with  which  you  have  always  received  any  new 
documents  relative  to  the  illustrious  Corneille  may,  I  think,  as- 
sure me  that  a  favorable  reception  will  be  given  to  a  document 
which  I  have  very  recently  discovered,  even  though  it  concerns 
not  the  great  poet  himself,  but  his  father — who,  as  you  know, 
exercised  at  Rouen,  for  about  thirty  years,  the  functions  of  gen- 
eral overseer  of  waters  and  forests.  This  honorable  post  was  not 
always  without  its  perils  ;  at  that  time,  interminable  wars,  pro- 
tracted famines,  frequent  interruptions  of  commercial  and  in- 
dustrial operations,  often  reduced  our  province,  and  especially  its 
capital,  to  a  condition  of  misery  such  as  we  can  in  these  times 
with  difficulty  imagine.  The  people,  having  neither  food  nor 
occupation,  could  scarcely  be  restrained  from  violation  of  order  ; 
seditious  movements  were  not  unfrequent,  and  it  was  even  a 
fortunate  circumstance  when  the  famished  multitude  confined 
their  turbulence  to  the  forests  which  bordered  on  the  town  of 
Rouen.  In  the  ancient  registers  of  the  Parliament  continual 
allusion  is  made  to  the  devastation  of  these  forests,  not  by  a  few 
isolated  individuals,  but  by  numerous  bands,  almost  always  arm- 
ed, who  were  the  terror  of  the  forest  constabulary,  whom  they 
boldly  faced  and  put  to  flight,  and  whom  they  sometimes  even 
killed. 

During  the  long  administration  of  Corneille  the  father,  in  the 


¥ 


370  APPENDIX. 

reign  of  Louis  XIII.,  nothing   was  more  frequent  than  these 
scenes  of  pillage,  and  all  the  perseverance,  aL  the  intrepidity 
which  the  overseers  of  woods  and  forests  could  command  were 
required  in  order  to  suppress  them.     To  confine  myself  to  one 
fact  among  the  many  others  which,  are  to  be  found  in  the  regis- 
ters of  the  Parliament  of  Normandy,  we  find  that  in  the  month 
of  January,    1612,   the    elder  Corneille  resisted  in  person  the 
armed  bands  who  every  day  pillaged  the  forest  of  Roumare.' 
It  is  a  singular  fact  that,  out  of  twelve  sergeants  who  had  been 
previously  appointed  to  guard  the  forests  bordering  on  Rouen, 
_eight  had  just  been  dismissed  at  a  time  when  the  robbers  in 
these  woods  were  continually  being  multiplied.     Corneille  the 
elder,  however,  followed  by  only  four  sergeants,  and  assisted  by  a 
substitute  of  the  Procureur-General,  went  on  horseback  to  the 
scene  of  these  disorders.     On  the  road  to  Bapaume  he  wasmet 
by  a  band  of  fifteen  or  twenty  plunderers,  anned  with  bill-hooks 
and  hatchets.     To  the  remonstrances  of  Corneille  these  desperate 
men  answered  roughly  "  that  they  were  going  to  the  forest,  and 
were  dying  wath   hunger   and  cold."     Corneille,  even  though 
attended  by  so  few  followers,  did  not  hesitate  to  order  that  some 
of  the  hatchets  and  implements  with  which  these  men  were 
armed  should  be  taken  away  from  them.     This,  however,  was 
not  accomplished  without  some  difficulty,  and  '•  it  was  suspected," 
says  the  register,  "that  a  revolt  was  rising  against  him  and  his 
colleagues."     A  few  moments  after  this,  one  of  his  four  sergeants 
was  maltreated  by  the  advanced  guard  of  another  band,  consist- 
ing of  more  than  three  hundred  armed  plunderers  ;  who,  having 
descended  from  the  forest  of  Roumare,  laden  with  wood,  took  up 
their  position  in  line  along  the  avenues — "  and  there  was  danger," 
says  the  register,  "  lest  they  should  fall  upon  Pierre  Corneille  and 
those  who  accompanied  him."     He  hastened  his  return  to  Rouen, 
and  reported  to  the  Parliament  the  particulars  of  his  adventure, 
which  we   have    reproduced   almost  verbatim.     This  sovereign 
tribunal  perceived   what   disastrous   consequences   would   result 
from  such  disorders,  "  not  only,"  say  the  king's  servants,  "  in  the 
injury  caused  to  the  forest,  but  in  the  disposition  to  revolt  which 
would  manifest  itself  whenever  scarcity  should  arrive."     Ac- 
cordingly, acting  according  to  the  information  supplied  by  Pierre 

'  "  Registre  secret  du  Parlement  de  Rouen."     (Manuscript.)  Jan.  7th, 
1GI2. 


APPENDIX.  371 

Corneille,  they  took  such  measures  as  put  a  stop,  at  least  for  a 
time,  to  these  popular  movements.  If  we  reflect  on  all  the 
similar  cases,  so  frequent  durinf^  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.,  when, 
during  an  administration  of  thirty  years,  the  elder  Corneille  had 
thus  to  resist  in  person,  and,  it  may  be  said,  alone,  the  outbreaks  of 
a  people  reduced  to  desperation  by  famine — we  shall  feel  how 
justly  he  merited  the  lettres  do  7ioblessc  which  were  granted  to 
him,  and  which  we  have  only  recently  discovered,  after  the 
lengthened  but  fruitless  searches  which  have  been  made  at  dif- 
ferent times  by  those  who  were  interested  in  the  descendants  of 
the  great  poet.  Not  that^we  would  carefully  assert  this — not 
that  we  are  insensible  to  the  fact  that  any  nobility  which  is 
granted  by  royal  charter  must  appear  insignificant  when  com- 
pared with  that  higher  nobility  which  the  great  Corneille  has 
won  for  himself  by  his  works  and  his  genius.  None  can  feel 
this  more  than  we  do  ;  yet,  in  our  times,  when  so  much  and 
unwearied  attention  is  given  to  curious  investigations,  when  in- 
formation concerning  such  men  as  Corneille  is  eagerly  sought 
after,  why  should  we  slight  the  remembrance  of  a  mark  of  honor 
which  was  conferred  in  acknowledgment  of  long  and  eminent 
services  upon  the  father  of  this  great  man— a  distinction,  more- 
over, of  which  our  great  poet  and  his  brother  Thomas  always 
availed  themselves  ?  This  was  sufficiently  natural,  doubtless,  at 
a  time  when  such  titles  could  in  certain  places  secure  an  honor- 
able reception,  which  might,  perhaps,  have  been  denied  to  un- 
adorned native  talent — and  in  an  age  which  was  so  profusely 
supplied  with  luminaries,  and  had  attained  to  so  high  a  philo- 
sophical eminence,  that  the  man  of  worth  who  was  not  some- 
what graced  by  wealth  or  distinguished  rank  was  sometimes 
rather  at  a  discount.  Accordingly,  as  sons  of  a  Le  Pesant  de 
Bois-Guilbert  (a  name  which,  for  a  long  time,  has  been  an 
honorable  one  in  that  province,  and  is  even  still  honored  there) 
— as  sous  of  a  conscientious  and  intrepid  magistrate,  ennobled  on 
account  of  numerous  services,  and  of  no  mean  repute — Pierre 
and  Thomas  Corneille  (the  one  entitled  Sieur  de  Damville,  the 
other  Sieur  de  Lisle,  and  both  of  them  squires),  were  received  into 
distinguished  circles,  at  first  as  gentlemen  of  a  good  family,  and 
were  afterward  doubtless  sought  for  and  entertained  as  poets  and 
writers. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  despise  what  these  distinguished  men  did 


372  APPENDIX. 

not  disdain,  and  what  besides  was  gi-anted  to  their  family  at  a 
time  when  the  recent  and  remarkable  success  of  the  "  Cid" — a 
success  previously  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  the  theatre — 
might  justly  seem  a  supplement  to  the  numerous  titles  of  the 
father,  and  a  seal  to  the  royal  grant  of  nobility  which  was  to 
descend  to  his  eldest  son,  the  great  poet.  The  "  Cid,"  in  fact, 
appeared  in  1636,  and  in  January,  1637,  exactly  two  hundred 
years  ago,  Louis  XIII.,  signed  the  lettres  de  noblesse  which  were 
granted  by  him  to  Pierre  Corneille,  father  of  the  great  Corneille. 
By  an  edict  of  January,  1634  (Article  iv.),  this  monarch  had 
promised  "  that  for  the  future  he  would  not  grant  any  letters  to 
confer  nobility,  except  fo)-  g?-eat  and  important  cotisiderations." 
These  letters,  therefore,  which  were  granted  in  January,  1637, 
so  soon  after  the  publication  of  this  edict,  seem  to  possess  an 
additional  value  : 

"  Louis,  par  la  grâce  de  Dieu,  roi  de  France  et  de  Navarre,  à 
tous  présent  et  à  venir,  salut. 

"  La  Noblesse,  fille  de  la  Vertu,  prend  sa  naissance,  en  tous 
estats  bien  policés,  des  actes  généreux  <îe  ceux  qui  tesmoignent, 
au  peril  et  pertes  de  leurs  biens  et  incommodités  de  leurs  per- 
sonnes, estre  utiles  au  service  de  leur  prince  et  de  la  chose  pub- 
lique ;  ce  qui  a  donné  subject  aux  roys  nos  prédécesseurs  et  à 
nous  de  faire  choix  de  ceux  qui,  par  leur  bons  et  louables  effets, 
ont  rendu  preuve  entière  de  leur  fidélité,  pour  les  eslever  et 
mettre  au  rang  des  nobles,  et,  par  ceste  prérogative,  rendre  leurs 
vie  et  actions  remarquables  à  la  postérité.  Ce  qui  doibt  servir 
d'émulation  aux  autres,  à  ceste  exemple,  de  s'acquérir  de  l'hon- 
neur et  réputation,  eu  espérance  de  pareille  rescompence. 

"Et  d'autant  que,  par  le  tesmoignage  de  nos  plus  spéciaux 
serviteurs,  nous  sommes  deuement  informés  que  nostre  amé  et 
féal  Pierre  Corneille,  issu  de  bonne  et  honorable  race  et  famille, 
a  toujours  eu  en  bonne  et  singulière  recommandation  le  bien  de 
cest  estât  et  le  nostre  en  divers  emplois  qu'il  a  eus  par  nostre 
commandement  et  pour  le  bien  de  nostre  service  et  du  publiq,  et 
particulièrement  en  l'exercice  de  l'ofllice  de  maisti-e  de  nos  eaues 
et  forests,  en  la  viconté  de  Rouen,  durant  plus(^e  vingt  ans,  dont 
il  s'est  acquitté  avec  un  extrême  soing  et  fidélité,  pour  la  con- 
servation de  nos  dictes  forests,  e1  en  plusieurs  autres  occasions  où 
il  s'est  porté  avec  tel  zèle  et  affection  que  ses  services  rendus  et 


APPENDIX.  373 

reiix  que  nous  espéx"ons  de  luy,  a  I'advenir,  nous  donnent  subject 
(le  recongnoistre  sa  vertu  et  mérites,  et  les  décorer  de  ce  degré 
d'honneur,  pour  marque  et  mémoire  à  sa  postérité. 

"  Sçavoir  faisons  que  nous,  pour  ces  causes  et  autres  bonnes  et 
justes  considérations  à  ce  nous  mouvans,  voulans  le  gratifier  et 
favorablement  traicter,  avons  le  diet  Corneille,  de  nos  grâce 
spécialle,  pleine  puissance  et  authorité  royalle,  ses  enfans  et 
postérité,  masles  et  femelles,  naiz  et  à  naistre  en  loyal  mariage, 
annoblys  et  annoblissons,  et  du  titre  et  qualité  de  noblesse  décoré 
et  décorons  par  les  présentes  signées  de  nostre  main.  Voulons  et 
nous  plaist  qu'en  tous  actes  et  endroicts,  tant  en  jugements  que 
dehors,  ils  soient  tenus  et  réputez  pour  nobles,  et  puissent  porter 
le  titre  d'escuyer,  jouyr  et  uzer  de  tous  honneurs,  privilléges  et 
exemptions,  franchises,  prérogatives,  prééminences  dont  jouissent 
et  ont  accoustumé  jouyr  les  autres  nobles  de  nostre  royaume, 
extraicts  de  noble  et  ancienne  race  ;  et  comme  tels,  ils  puissent 
acquérir  tous  fiefs  possessions  nobles,  de  quelques  nature  et 
qualité  qu'ils  soient,  et  d'iceux,  ensemble  de  ceux  qu'ils  ont  acquis 
et  leur  pourroient  escheoir  à  I'advenir,  jouyr  et  uzer  tout  ainsy 
que  s'ils  estoient  nais  et  issus  de  noble  et  ancienne  race,  sans 
qu'ils  soient  ou  puissent  estre  contraints  en  vuider  leurs  mains, 
ayant,  d'habondant,  au  diet  Corneille,  et  à  sa  postérité,  de  nostre 
plus  ample  grâce,  permis  et  octroyé,  permectons  et  octroyons  qu'ils 
puissent  doresnavant  porter  partout  et  en  tous  lieux  que  bon  leur 
semblera,  mesmes  faire  eslever  par  toutes  et  chacune  leurs  terres 
et  seigneuries,  leurs  armoiries  timbrées  tels  que  nous  leurs  donnons 
et  sont  cy  empreintes,'  tout  ainsi  et  en  la  mesme  forme  et  manière, 
que  font  et  ont  accoustumé  faire  les  autres  nobles  de  nostre  diet 
royaume. 

"  Si  donnons  en  mandement  à  nos  amés  et  féaux  conseillers  les 
gens  teuans  nostre  cour  des  aides  à  Rouen,  et  autres  nos  justiciers 
et  officiers  qu'il  appartiendra,  chacun  endroit  soy,  que  de  nos  pré- 
sente grâce,  don  d'armes,  et  de  tout  le  contenu  ci-dessus  ils  facent, 
souffrent  et  laissent  jouyr  et  uzer  pleinement,  paisiblement  et 
perpétuellement  le  dit  Corneille,  ses  dits  enfans  et  postérité  masles 
et  femelles,  nais  et  à  naistre  en  loial  mariage,  cessant  et  faisant 

'  D'azur,  à  la  fasce  d"or,  chargées  de  trois  têtes  de  lion  de  gueule,  et 
accompagnées  de  trois  étoiles  d'argent  posées  deux  en  chef  et  une  en  dointe. 
"Armoriai  général  de  France.  Ville  de  Paris,  folio  1066.  Bibliothèque 
Rovale."  ■  ■  " 


374  APPENDIX. 

cesser  tous  troubles,  et  empeschemens  au  contraire.  Car  tel  est 
nostre  plaisir,  nonobstant  quelsconques  edicts,  ordonnances,  revoc- 
quations,  et  reiglements  à  ce  contraires,  auxquels  et  à  la  desroga- 
toire  des  desrogatoires  y  contenue,  nous  avons  desrogé  et  desrogeons 
par  les  dictes  présentes.  Et  afin  que  ce  soit  chose  ferme  et  stable 
à  toujours,  nous  avons  faict  mectre  nostre  scel  aux  dictes  présentes, 
sauf,  en  autres  choses,  notre  droict,  et  l'autray  en  toutes. 

"  Donné  à  Paris,  au  mois  de  Janvier,  l'an  de  grâce  mil  six  cent 
trente-sept,  et  de  nostre  règne  le  vingt-septième.  Signé,  Louis." 
Et  sur  le  reply,  "  Par  le  roy,  De  Lomenie,"  ung  paraphe.  Et  à 
costé  visa,  et  scellé  et  las  de  soye  rouge  et  verd  du  grand  sceau 
de  cire  verde. 

Et  sur  le  diet  reply  est  escript:  "  Registrées  aix  registre  de  la 
Court  des  Aides  en  Normandie,  suivant  l'arrest  d'icelle  du  vingt- 
quatrième  jour  de  Mars,  mil  six  cent  trente-sept.  Signé  De 
Lestoille,"  ung  paraphe. 

"  Louis,  by  the  grace  of  God,  king  of  France  and  Navarre,  to 
all  whom  these  presents  may  concern,  greeting. 

"  Nobility,  the  daughter  of  Virtue,  springs,  in  all  states  which 
are  wisely  ruled,  from  the  generous  deeds  of  those  who  testify,  at 
the  peril  and  loss  of  their  property  and  the  inconvenience  of  their 
persons,  that  they  are  of  value  in  the  sennce  of  their  prince  and 
of  the  commonwealth  ;  which  has  induced  our  royal  predecessors 
and  ourself  to  make  choice  of  those  who,  by  their  good  and  praise- 
worthy performances,  have  given  full  proof  of  their  fidelity,  in 
order  that  we  may  elevate  them  and  place  them  in  the  rank  of 
nobles,  and  by  this  distinction  render  their  life  and  actions  re- 
markable to  posterity,  which  also  may  serve  to  excite  the  emula- 
tion of  others  who  witness  this  example,  to  gain  honor  and  repu- 
tation in  hope  of  a  similar  recompense. 

"And  Ibrasmuch  as  that,  by  the  testimony  of  our  special  serv- 
ants, we  have  been  duly  informed  that  our  friend  and  liege  sub- 
ject Pierre  Corneille,  sprung  Irom  good  and  honorable  race  and 
family,  has  always  had  in  good  and  singular  consideration  the 
welfare  of  this  state  and  of  ourself  in  divers  offices  which  he  has 
exercised  by  our  commandment  and  for  the  welfare  of  our  service 
and  of  the  public — and  particularly  in  the  exercise  of  the  oflice 
of  overseer  of  our  woods  and  forosis,  in  the  viscounty  of  Rouen, 
during  more  than  twenty  years,  in  which  he  has  fulfilled  his 


APPENDIX.  375 

charge  with  the  greatest  care  and  fidelity,  for  the  preservation  of 
our  said  forests — and  on  several  other  occasions  when  he  has 
acted  with  such  zeal  and  affection  that  his  services  already  ren- 
dered and  those  which  we  hope  to  receive  from  him  in  the  future, 
admonish  us  to  recognize  his  virtue  and  deserts,  and  to  decorate 
them  with  this  badge  of  honor,  as  a  mark  and  a  memorial  to  his 
posterity. 

"Be  it  known,  therefore,  that  we,  for  these  causes,  and  led  to 
this  by  other  good  and  just  considerations,  wishing  to  gratify  him 
and  treat  him  with  due  favor,  have  ennobled,  and  do  ennoble, 
the  said  Corneille,  his  children  and  posterity,  male  and  female, 
who  have  been  or  may  be  born  to  him  and  them  in  lawful  mar- 
riage, by  our  special  grace,  full  power,  and  royal  authority  ;  and 
have  decorated,  and  do  decorate  them,  with  the  title  and  quality 
of  nobility  by  these  presents  signed  with  our  hand.  It  is  our 
will  and  pleasure,  that  in  all  acts  and  rights,  as  well  in  legal 
declarations  as  elsewhere,  they  should  be  held  and  reputed  as 
nobles,  and  should  bear  the  title  of  Esquire,  enjoying  and  using 
all  the  honors,  privileges,  and  exemptions,  franchises,  preroga- 
tives, and  pre-eminences  which  the  other  nobles  of  our  kingdom, 
descended  from  noble  and  ancient  families,  enjoy  and  have  been 
accustomed  to  enjoy  ;  and,  as  such,  that  they  may  acquire  all 
fiefs  as  possessed  by  nobles,  of  what  nature  and  quality  soever 
they  may  be  ;  and  may  enjoy  and  use  the  aforesaid,  together 
with  those  which  they  have  acquired,  or  which  may  fall  to  them 
in  future,  m  all  respects  as  if  they  had  beeii  born  in  and  descend- 
ed from  a  noble  and  ancient  race  ;  so  that'they  shall  not,  and 
can  not,  be  constrained  to  give  up  the  same  out  of  their  hands, 
since  we  have  permitted  and  granted,  and  do  permit  and  grant 
fully,  to  the  said  Corneille  and  to  his  posterity,  by  our  most  ample 
grace,  that  they  shall  for  the  future  bear,  every  where  and  in  all 
places  in  which  it  may  seem  fit  to  them  ;  and  also  cause  to  be 
placed  in  all  and  each  of  their  lands  and  manors  their  arms, 
stamped  as  we  have  gi-anted  them,  and  as  are  here  impressed  X  , 
entirely  in  the  same  form  and  manner  as  the  other  nobles  of  our 
said  kingdom  do,  and  have  been  accustomed  to  do. 

"  So  we  give  in  command  to  our  beloved  and  trusty  counsellor 
holding  our  Court  of  Aids  at  Rouen,  and  others  our  justiciaries 
and  officers  to  whom  it  may  belong,  each  in  his  place,  that  of  our 
present  grace,  gift  of  arms,  and  all  the  contents  hereof,  they  should 


370  APPENDIX. 

cause,  suffer,  and  allow  to  enjoy  and  use  fully,  peaceably,  and 
perpetually,  the  said  Corneille,  his  children  and  their  posterity, 
male  and  female,  born,  and  to  be  born,  in  lawful  wedlock, 
ceasing,  and  causing  to  cease,  all  troubles  and  hindrances  to  the 
contrary. 

"  For  such  is  our  pleasure,  notwithstanding  whatsoever  edicts, 
orders,  counter-orders,  and  rules  contrary  to  this,  to  which,  and 
to  the  derogatory  of  the  derogatories  therein  contained,  we  have 
derogated,  and  derogate,  by  these  presents.  And  in  order  that 
this  thing  may  be  firm  and  secure  for  all  future  time,  we  have 
caused  our  seal  to  be  put  to  these  presents,  saving,  in  other 
things,  our  right,  and  that  of  others,  in  all. 

"  Given  at  Paris,  in  the  month  of  January,  the  year  of  grace 
one  thousand  six  hundred  and  thirty-seven,  and  in  the  twenty- 
seventh  year  of  our  reign.  (Signed)  Loins."  And  on  the  back  : 
"  By  the  king,  De  Lomenie,"  a  flourish.  And  on  the  side  visa, 
and  sealed  and  tied  with  red  and  green  silk,  with  the  great  seal 
of  green  wax. 

And  on  the  said  back  is  written  :  "  Registered  in  the  register 
of  the  Court  of  Aids  in  Normandy,  according  to  the  decree  of  this 
twenty-fourth  day  of  March,  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  thirty- 
seven.     (Signed)  De  Lestoille,",  a  flourish. 

These  letters  of  nobility  were  registered  on  the  27th  of  March, 
1637,  in  the  Chamber  of  Accounts  of  Normandy,  and  were  re- 
newed by  Louis  XIV.  in  May,  1669,  in  favor  of  Pierre  and 
Thomas  Corneille. 


Appendix  B. — Page  172. 
LETTER  OF  CLAUDE  SARRAU  TO  CORNEILLE, 

REQUESTING    HIM    TO    CELEBRATE    THE    MEMORY    OF    CARDINAL   RICHELIEtT, 
WHO    HAD    JUST    DIED. 

Claude  Sarrau,  councilor  at  the  Parliament  of  Paris,  and  a 
celebrated  scholar,  wrote,  on  the  14th  of  December,  1642,  to 
Pierre  Corneille,  then  at  Rouen,  where  he  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Sarrau,  who  had  lived  there  some  time  after  1640, 
during  the  interdiction  of  the  Parliament  of  Normandy  : 


APPENDIX.  :C7 

"  Scire  imprimis  desidero,  utriim  tribus  exiraiis  et  diviuis  tuis 
dramatibus  quartum  adjungere  mediteris.  Sed,  praesertim,  exci- 
tandœ  sunt  illse  tuse  Divse  ut  aliquod  carmen  te  seque  dignura 
pangant  super  Magni  Panis  obitu. 

"  '  Multis  ille  quidem  flebilis  occidit.' 
uvilli  flebilior  quam  tibi,  Cornelî.  lile  tamen,  volens,  nolens, 
Appollinari  laurea  caput  tuum  redimivisset,  si  perennasset  diutius. 
Operum  saltern  tuorum  insignem  laudatorem  amisisti.  Sed  non 
eget  virtus  tua  ullius  praeconio  ;  quippe  qua3  per  universum  ter- 
rarum  orbem, 

"  '  Quo  sol  exoritur,  quo  sol  se  gurgite  mergit,' 
latissime  simul,  cum  gloria  tuâ  diffusa,  tot  admiratores  nacta  est 
quot  vivuut  eruditi  et  candidi. 

"  In  tanto  igitur  argument©  silere  te  posse  vix  credam.  Istud 
tamen  omne  fuerit  tui  arbitrii  : 

"  '  Invito  non  si  va  in  Pamasso.' 

"  Inaudivi  nescio  quid  de  aliquo  tuo  poëmate  sacro,  quod  an 
affectum,  an  perfectum  sit,  queeso,  rescribe.  Vale,  et  me,  ut 
facere  te  scio,  diligere  perge. 

"  Lutetise  Parisiorum,  idiis  Decembris,  1642." 

TRANSLATION. 

"  First  of  all,  I  wish  to  know  whether,  to  your  three  excellent 
and  divine  dramas,  you  have  any  intention  to  add  a  fourth.  But 
especially  is  it  fitting  that  your  muse  shovild  be  excited  to  produce 
somp  poem,  w^orthy  of  you  and  of  herself,  on  the  death  of  Great 
Pan.     He  has  departed  to  the  great  sorrow  of  many, 

"  'Multis  ille  quidem  flebilis  occidit.' 
and  none  has  more  cause  to  regret  him  than  yourself.  For,  wheth- 
er willingly  or  otherwise,  had  he  lived  longer,  he  would  have  en- 
circled your  brow  vdth  Apollo's  garland.  You  have  lost  an  illus- 
trious admirer  of  your  works.  But  your  merit  does  not  require  to 
be  proclaimed  by  any  one  ;•  for  throughout  the  whole  world — 

"  '  Quo  sol  exoritur,  quo  sol  se  gurgite  mergit,' 
so  widely  has  it  been  spread  to  your  great  glory,  that  wherever 
there  are  learned  and  honorable  men,  there  have  you  admirers. 

"  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  you  will  be  able  to  keep  silence 
under  the  inspiration  of  such  a  theme  ;  your  inclination,  how- 
ever,'must  decide  this  : 

"  '  Invito  non  si  va  in  Pamasso.' 


378  APPENDIX. 

"Rumors  have  reached  me  of  some  sacred  poem  of  youre  ; 
write,  1  beg  of  you,  to  inform  me  whether  it  is  finished,  or  you 
have  made  much  progress  with  it.  Farewell  :  continue  to  love 
me,  as  I  know  you  do. 

"  Claudii  Sarravii  Epistolœ,  Epist.  49." 


Appendix  C. — Page  202. 

THE  POLITICAL  SIDE  TAKEN  BY  CORNEILLE 
DURING  THE  FRONDE. 

Document  communicated  to  the  Academy  of  Rouen  by  M.  Floquet,  at  the 
sitting  of  November  18,  1836 

As  I  was  consulting,  some  time  ago,  a  register  of  the  Parlia- 
ment of  Normandy,  I  met  all  at  once  with  the  name  of  Cor- 
neille, and  was  naturally  led  to  inquire  whether  the  individual 
alluded  to  was  the  great  poet  whose  renown  is  so  dear  to  us  all. 
This  register  belongs  to  the  period  of  the  Fronde — the  year. 1650 
— and  the  name  of  Corneille  is  found  under  the  date  of  the 
19th  of  February.  A  month  before,  the  Princes  of  C onde  and  of 
Conti,  and  the  Duke  de  Longueville,  their  brother-in-law,  had 
been  taken  prisoners.  The  Clueen-mother,  Louis  XIV.,  then 
twelve  years  of  age,  Cardinal  Mazarin,  and  all  the  Court  had 
come  to  Rouen,  from  which  place  the  Duchess  de  Longueville 
had -fled  on  their  approach,  in  order,  at  Dieppe,  to  attempt  to 
gather  together  some  who  could  shield  her;  in  which,  however, 
she  did  not  succeed  to  any  very  great  extent.  The  Court,  which 
had  come  to  Normandy  in  order  to  defeat  the  designs  of  this 
intrepid  and  regtless  princess,  could  not  forget  all  that  the  Duke 
de  LonguevUle  and  his  partisans  had  done  during  the  preceding 
year  at  Rouen  and  in  the  province — their  plottings,  their  re- 
bellion, and  their  levying  of  men  against  the  king,  who  was  con- 
fined to,  and  almost  besieged  in,  the  Château  of  Saint-Germain. 
Accordingly,  after  having  punished  the  Prince,  they  did  not  spare 
his  instruments. 

Without  speaking  in  this  place  of  the  Marquis  de  Beuvron  and 
of  his  lieutenant,  La  Fontaine-du-Pin,  who  were  expelled  from 
the  Vieux-Palais,  and  of  M.  de  Montenay,  councillor  to  the  Par- 
liament, an  ally  of  Longueville,  who  was  deprived  of  his  oflice 


APPENDTX.  379 

as  captain  of  the  townsmen — and  confining  myself  to  that  which 
constitutes  the  subject  of  this  notice — the  place  of  Procureur- 
syndic  of  the  Estates  of  Normandy  was  then  filled  by  Baudry, 
one  of  the  most  skilled  and  eloquent  advocates  in  the  Rouen 
Parliament.  He  had  filled  this  post  for  seventeen  years  to  the 
satisfaction  of  his  fellow-citizens,  whose  confidence  he  had  gained 
by  the  unremitting  zeal  with  which  he  defended  their  interests  ; 
but,  being  the  advocate  of  the  Duke  de  Longueville,  and  strongly 
attached  to  his  person,  as  he  had  distinguished  himself  at  Rouen, 
in  1649,  among  his  most  exalted  partisans,  he  of  course  had  to 
endure  the  severities  and  opposition  of  the  Court.  Accordingly, 
we  find  that  Saintot,  that  master  of  the  ceremonies  who  is  so 
often  mentioned  in  history,  came  to  the  palace  on  the  19th  of 
February,  with  orders  from  the  king.  When  introduced  into  the 
Grand  Chamber,  he  saluted  the  Parliament,  which  (so  the  regis- 
ter informs  us)  returned  his  greeting,  and  begged  him  to  be 
seated  showing  more  civility  in  this,  so  far  as  that  officer  was 
concerned,  than  had  been  shown  by  the  first  President  of  the 
Parliament  of  Paris,  who  on  one  occasion,  while  in  the  seat  of 
justice,  impatient  at  seeing  how  Saintot  busied  and  agitated 
himself,  had  answered  to  bis  profound  and  repeated  salutations 
in  the  crushing  words,  "  Saintot,  the  Court  does  not  acknowl- 
edge your  civilities."  Saintot  presented  to  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Grand  Chamber  an  official  letter  which  had  been  sent  by  the 
king,  the  purport  of  which  is  as  follows  : 

"  De  par  le  Roy. 
"  Nos  amei;  et  féaux,  ayant,  pour  des  considérations  impor- 
tantes à  notre  service,  destitué  le  Sieur  Baudry  de  la  charge  de 
Procureur  des  Estatz  de  Normandie,  nous  avons,  en  mesme 
temps,  commis  à  icelle  le  Sieur  de  Corneille,  pour  l'exercer  et  on 
faire  les  fonctions  jusques  à  ce  qu'aux  premiers  Estatz  il  y  soit 
pourveu.  Sur  quoy,  nous  vous  avons  bien  voulu  faire  cette  lettre, 
de  l'advis  de  la  Reyne  Régente,  nostre  trés-honorée  dame  et  mère, 
pour  vous  en  informer.  Et  n'estant  la  présente  pour  un  autre 
subject,  nous  ne  vous  la  ferons  plus  longue. 

"  Donné  à  Rouen,  le  dix-septième  jour  de  Fcbvrier,  1650. 

"Louis, 
"  De  Loménie." 


380  APPENDIX. 

"  Our  I'rieiidly  and  loyal  servants,  having,  for  reasons  import- 
antly concerned  with  our  service,  deprived  the  Sieur  Baudry  of 
the  post  of  Procureur  of  the  Estates  of  Normandy,  we  have,  at 
the  same  time,  commissioned  to  the  aforesaid  office,  the  Sieur  de 
Corneille,  to  exercise  it  and  perform  its  functions  until  such  time  as 
provision  may  be  made  by  the  first  Estates.  To  which  end  we 
have  thought  it  well  to  send  this  letter,  by  the  advice  of  the  dueen 
Regent,  our  greatly  honored  lady  and  mother,  that  you  may  be 
informed  of  the  same.  And  not  intending  these  presents  to  refer 
to  any  other  subject,  we  shall  not  make  them  of  greater  length. 

"  Given  at  Houen,  this  seventeenth  day  of  February,  1650. 

"Louis, 
"  De  Loménie." 

Who  was  this  Sieur  de  Corneille,  appointed  by  the  king  to 
the  office  of  syndic  of  the  Estates?  The  elder  Corneille,  special 
master  of  the  waters  and  forests  at  Rouen,  had  died  on  the  12th 
of  February,  1639  ;  Thomas,  brother  to  Pierre,  then  only  twenty- 
five  years  old,  could  not,  we  should  think,  have  been  chosen  to 
occupy  such  an  important  position.  I  am  therefore  inclined  to 
believe  that  our  great  poet  must  be  liere  mentioned  ;  but  where 
shall  we  find  the  proof  of  this  ?  The  official  letter,  sent  on  this 
occasion  to  the  Town  Council  of  Rouen,  was  a  little  more  ex- 
plicit ;  it  is  as  follows  : 

"  Sa  Majesté,  ayant  pour  des  considérations  importantes  à  son 
service,  destitué  par  son  ordonnance  de  ce  jovird'huy,  le  Sieur 
Baudry  de  la  charge  de  Procureur  des  Estats  de  Normandie,  et 
estant  nécessaire  file  la  remplir  de  quelque  per smine  capable,  et 
dont  la  fidélité  et  affcctimi  soit  comme.  Sa  dite  Majesté  a  fait 
choix  du  Sieur  de  Corneille,  lequel,  par  l'advis  de  la  Reyne 
Régente,  elle  a  commis  et  commet  à  la  dite  charge,  au  lieu  et 
place  du  dit  Sieur  Baudry,  pour  doresnavant  l'-exercer  et  en  faire 
les  fonctions,  jusques  à  la  tenue  des  Estats  prochains,  et  jusques 
à  ce  qu'il  en  soit  autrement  ordonné  par  Sa  dite  Majesté,  laquelle 
mande  et  ordonne  à  tous  qu'il  appartiendra  de  reconnoistre  le  dit 
Sieur  de  Corneille,  en  la  dite  qualité  de  Procureur  des  dits  Estats 
sans  difficulté. 

"  Faits  à  Rouen,  le  quinzième  jour  de  Febvrier,  1650. 

"Louis, 
"  De  Loménie." 


APPENDIX.  381 

"  His  Majesty,  having  for  reasons  which  importantly  concern 
his  service,  deprived  by  his  decree  of  this  day,  the  Sieur  Baudry 
of  the  office  of  Procure vir  of  the  Estates  of  Normandy,  and  it 
being  necessary  to  fill  it  with  some  Jit  j^ersofi  of  known  fidelity 
and  affection,  His  Majesty  has,  by  the  advice  of  the  Q,ueen  Re- 
gent, made  choice  of  the  Sieur  de  Corneille,  whom  He  has  com- 
missioned and  appointed  to  the  said  office,  in  the  place  of  the 
said  Sieur  Baudry,  to  exercise  it  for  the  future,  and  to  perform 
its  functions  until  the  next  meeting  of  the  Estates,  and  until  it 
shall  be  otherwise  decreed  by  His  Majesty,  who  commands  and 
orders  all  whom  it  may  concern  to  recognize  the  said  Sieur  de 
Corneille  in  the  said  quality  of  Procureur  of  the  said  Estates, 
without  opposition. 

"Done  at  Rouen,  this  fifteenth  day  of  Februarj',  1650. 

"  Louis, 
"  De  Loménie."  ' 

"But  in  all  this  there  is  nothing  to  prove  that  the  author  of 
the  "  Cid"  is  the  Corneille  alluded  to,  and  I  was  just  about  to 
give  up  any  further  inquiry,  when  chance  presented  what  I  had 
failed  to  discover  by  research. 

In  1650  there  was  printed  at  Amsterdam  a  book,  entitled,  "  A 
Special  Apology  for  the  Duke  de  Longueville  ;  in  which  is  shown 
the  Services  rendered  to  the  State  by  himself  and  his  House,  as 
well  in  War  as  in  Peace,  with  an  Answer  to  the  calumnious  Im- 
putations of  his  Enemies,  by  a  Gentletnan  of  Brittany .'''^  This 
book,  which  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  now,  having  fallen  into 
my  hands,  and  its  first  pages  appearing  to  be  curious,  the  interest 
which  it  might  possess  with  reference  to  our  province,  of  which 
the  Duke  de  Longueville  was  for  so  long  a  time  Governor,  gave 
me  a  great  desire  to  read  it  through  ;  and  this  the  more  because, 
although  the  title  attributed  the  Avork  to  a  gentleman  of  Brit- 
tany, the  book  had  all  the  appearance  of  having  been  written  by 
a  Norman,  and  one  well  informed  on  the  afi'airs  of  the  times. 

'  "  Registres  de  l'Hôtel  de  Ville  de  Rouen." 

^  "  Apologie  particulière  pour  Monsieur  le  Duc  de  Longueville,  où  il  est 
traité  des  Services  que  sa  Maison  et  sa  Personne  ont  rendus  à  l'Estat,  tant 
pour  la  Guerre  que  pour  la  Paix,  avec  la  Response  au.x  Imputations  caioui- 
nieuses  de  ses  Ennemis,  jiar  tt7i  Gcnlillwmmc  Breton.'''  4to.  Amsterdaiii, 
1650,  pp.  136. 


1 


382  APPENDIX. 

1  was  very  soon  convinced  that  this  was  the  case,  and  could  quite 
assent  to  the  affirmation  of  a  pamphlet  of  the  same  period  :  "  Ce 
Breton-là  a  veu  plus  souvent  I'emboucheure  de  la  Seine  que  celle 
de  la  Loire."  "  This  gentleman  of  Brittany  has  seen  the  mouth 
of  the  Seine  oftener  than  the  mouth  of  the  Loire."'  But  what 
was  my  delight  in  finding  in  this  pamphlet  the  solution  of  the 
problem  which  had  puzzled  me  for  some  time  !  After  having 
ably  defended  the  Duke  de  Longueville,  and  after  having  endeav- 
ored to  show  the  injustice  of  the  harsh  treatment  to  which  that 
prince  had  been  subjected,  the  apologist  turns  his  attention  to 
the  instruments  of  the  Duke  who  had  been  involved  in  his  dis- 
grace ;  and,  as  might  be  supposed,  the  advocate  Baudry  is  not 
forgotten. 

"  Their  rage,"  says  this  gentleman  of  Brittany,  "  has  fastened 
itself  not  only  upon  the  person  and  relatives  of  the  Duke  de 
Longueville,  but  also  upon  his  instruments,  and  even  upon  per- 
sons wdio  were  only  in  a  distant  manner  dependent  upon  him  : 
witness  the  case  of  the  Sieur  Baudry,  the  celebrated  advocate  of 
the  Parliament  of  Normandy,  who,  after  having  been  Syndic  of 
the  Estates  for  the  space  of  seventeen  years,  after  having  been 
nominated  by  the  people,  and  having  obtained  the  highest  respect 
in  the  province,  as  well  as  in  the  Council  and  the  Parliament, 
was  dismissed  from  his  post,  because  he  was  valued  by  the  Duke 
de  Longueville,  and  because  the  Lieutenant-general  Roques  was 
not  able  to  forgive  him  the  grave  oflënse  which  he  committed 
when  he  presented  to  the  Town  Council  the  letters  of  the  bailifi 
in  favor  of  his  Highness,  besides  that  the  ministers  owed  a  grudge 
against  him  for  the  harangue  which  he  made  on  the  subject  of 
the  reversion  granted  by  the  Q,ueeu  to  the  Count  de  Dunois."* 

So  far  we  have  the  history  of  the  advocate  Baiidry,  which  lit- 
tle concerns  us  :  what  follows  will  interest  us  more. 

"  The  Sieur  Baudry,"  continues  the  apologist,  "  has  at  least 
this  consolation  in  his  disgrace,  that  the  protection  of  the  people^ 
has  not  been  taken  away  from  him  for  any  other  reason  than  be- 
cause they  wish  to  oppress  the  people  with  impunity,  and  that 

'  Dcsadveu  du  libollc  intitulé  :  "  Apologie  particulière  de  M.  le  Duc  de 
Longueville,'  etc.,  1651.     4to.  p.  42. 

*  "  Apologie  particulière,"  pp.  114,  115. 

^  This  muHl  mopin — tlie  |)Owrr  of  protecting  the  people.  (Note  by  .M. 
Flo'inet  ) 


APPENDIX.  383 

he  has  not  failed  in  the  duties  of  his  post.  In  fact,  a  successor 
Juis  been  appointed  for  him  tvho  k?wios  very  iveli  hoi.v  to  inake 
verses  for  the  theatre  {the  Siexir  Corneille,  a  rioted  dramatic 
•poet — is  here  inserted  in  an  explanatory  paragraph  in  the  mar- 
gin), hut  ivhx),  it  is  said,  is  sxtjficicntiy  incapable  of  matiaging 
public  business.  In  short,,  he  must  be  an  enemy  of  the  people  or 
he  woidd  not  be  a  pensioner  of  Blazarin." 

This  gentleman  of  Brittany,  it  is  plain,  did  not  strike  very 
hard,  and  it  was  really  of  the  author  of  the  "  Cid"  that  he  com- 
plained ;  for,  at  that  time,  Thomas  had  only  brought  out  two 
pieces  for  representation,  "  Les  Engagements  du  Hasard,"  and 
"  Le  feint  Astrologue."  Pierre  Corneille,  on  the  other  hand, 
reigned  triumphant  over  the  theatre  ;  only  one  Corneille  was 
then  know^n — only  one  was  known  for  a  long  time  after — and 
this  was  our  poet,  the  author  of"  Cinna,"  of  "  Rodogime,"  and 
of  "  Les  Horaces  ;"  and  what  other  could  there  have  been,  espe- 
cially in  1650,  qualified  to  bear  the  designation  of  a  noted  dra- 
matic poet  ? 

It  does  not  appear  that  these  duties  of  Procureur-syndic,  which 
were  taken  away  from  the  advocate  Baudry,  to  the  so  great  dis- 
pleasure of  the  friends  of  the  Duke  de  Long\ieville,  had  been  very 
ardently  coveted  by  Pieri'e  Corneille,  who  they  say  was  invested 
with  them  to  his  great  chagrin.  The  thoughts  of  the  poet  were 
occupied,  for  the  time,  only  with  his  "  Andromède"  and  "Don 
Sanche  d'Aragon,"  and  how  could  he  in  such  a  case  turn  his  at- 
tention to  the  syndicate  of  our  provincial  Estates  ?  Only  a  short 
time  before,  Michel  Montaigne  had  found  himself  in  a  similar  way 
most  unexpectedly  made  Mayor  of  Bordeaux,  and  all  the  func- 
tionaries of  Guyenne  thereupon  composed  themselves  to  sleep  as 
soon  as  they  could,  under  the  peaceful  regime  of  a  mayor  who 
himself  never  kept  watch  at  all.  I  will  engage  to  say  that  Pierre 
Corneille  had  as  little  dreamt  that  he  \\-ould  be  appointed  to  the 
post  of  Procureur-syndic  ;  that  when  he  was  invested  with  this 
dignity  he  troubled  himself  very  little  about  it,  and  that  as  he  had 
allowed  it  to  come  into  his  possession  without  experiencing  any 
very  lively  gratification,  so  he  saw  it  taken  from  him  without  re- 
gret, having  kept  it.  without  making  great  efibrts  to  fulfil  its  du- 
ties. Indeed,  he  only  remained  in  this  office  for  a  short  time. 
A  year  afterward,  the  gates  ol'  the  citadel  of  Havre  were  thrown 
open  to  release  the  three  captive  princes.     The  Duke  de  Longue- 


384  APPENDIX. 

ville,  gaining  experience  by  misfortune,  had  promised  that  he 
would  remain  quiet  for  the  future,  and  he  kept  his  word.  The 
Duchess  de  Longueville  and  the  Prince  of  Condé  spared  no  per- 
suasions to  induce  him  to  engage  in  new  intrigues,  but  their  ef- 
forts were  fruitless.  After  the  prince  had  become  thus  submis- 
sive, how  could  he  be  refused  the  restoration  of  all  the  rights  and 
all  the  powers  of  which  he  had  been  despoiled  in  consequence  of 
his  exploits  in  1649  ?  And  yet  how  also  could  this  prince  be  re- 
instated in  his  ancient  power  without  retaining  a  grateful  recol- 
lection of  those  faithful  friends  who  had  suffered  with  him  and 
for  him  ?  This  the  Court  well  understood,  and  the  duke  was 
allowed  to  restore  to  all  his  adherents  the  places  of  which  they 
had  been  deprived.  Accordingly,  we  find  that  the  Marquis  de 
Beuvron  and  La  Fontain-du-Piu  re-entered  the  Vieux-Palais  ;  wc 
find  that  the  Councilor  Montenay  reappeared  at  the  head  of  his 
compa,ny  of  citizen  guards  ;  and,  lastly,  on  the  24th  of  March, 
1651,  M.  Duhamel,  the  first  Conseiller-échevin,  brought  to  the 
Town  Council  an  official  letter  of  the  15th  of  March,  which  re- 
established M.  Baudry  in  the  post  recently  given  to  Corneille,  and 
commanded  all  to  recognise  him  in  that  capacity,  just  as  if  he 
had  never  been  degraded. 

This  was  then  the  end  of  Pierre  Corneille's  syndicate  ;  but  he 
doubtless  resigned  it  without  overwhelming  mortification.  He 
was  at  that  time  concluding  his  "  Nicomède,"  and  probably  con- 
jecturing what  effect  would  be  produced  at  the  theatre  by  that 
tone  of  irony  and  raillery  which  had  hitherto  been  unknown  to 
the  legitimate  drama  :  he  was  thinking  much  about  Bithynia, 
and  apparently  little  about  Normandy  and  its  Estates. 

Perhaps  this  will  be  thought  a  very  long  narration  of  a  very 
insignificant  fact,  which  certainly  adds  nothing  to  the  glory  already 
won  by  Corneille  ;  but  not  one  of  his  biographers  have  had  an 
opportunity  of  reading  all  those  official  documents  which  are 
buried  in  the  registers  of  the  Town  Council  and  the  Palace  ;  and 
not  one  seems  to  have  read  the  "  Apologie"  of  the  Duke  de  Long- 
ueville, which  is  such  a  curious  commentary  on  those  documents 
My  gratification  may  therelbre  well  be  pardoned  at  having  found 
a  new  fact,  however  unimportant  a  one,  respecting  a  great  man 
concerning  whom  two  centuries  have  had  so  much  to  relate. 


APPENDIX.  385 


â.ppENDix  D. — Page  221. 
APPEARANCE   OF  PIERRE   CORNEILLE. 

BEFORE   THE  LIEUTENANT  OF  EOLICE,   AT  THE   OHATELET,  FOR   CONTEAVEN- 
TION   OF  THE    HIGH5V"AY   REGULATIONS.        (JuLY,  1667.) 

Letter,  dated  July  30,  1667,  to  Madame  — — ,  by  Robinet.  (Extracted  from 
Lorefs  "  Muse  Historique.^') 

"  Avant  que  d'achever  ma  lettre, 

Je  dois  encore  un  mot  y  mettre 

De  ce  qui  se  passe  à  Paris, 
Et  cela  pourra  bien  réveiller  les  esprits. 
La  police  est  toujours  exacte  au  dernier  point  ; 

Elle  ne  relâche  point. 
Jugez-en,  s'il  vous  plaît,  par  ce  que  je  vais  dire  ; 

Vous  pourrez  bien  vous  en  sourire  ; 
Mais  vous  en  concluerez,  et  selon  mon  souhait, 
du'il  ne  faut  pas  vraycment,  que  notre  bourgeoisie 

Nonchalamment  oublie 
De  tenir  son  devant,  matin  et  soir,  fort  net. 
Vous  connaissez  assez  l'àîné  des  deux  Corneilles,     ' 
Q.ui  pour  vos  chers  plaisirs  produit  tant  de  merveilles  î 
Hé  bien,  cet  homme  là,  malgré  son  Apollon,  '  ■> 

Fut  naguère  cité  devant  cette  police,  •  .    * 

Ainsi  qu'un  petit  violon, 
Et  réduit,  en  un  mot,  à^e  trouver  en  lice, 

Pour  quelques  pailles  seulement, 

Q,u'un  trop  vigilant  commissaire 

Rencontra  fortuitement 

Tout  devant  sa  porte  cochère. 

Jugez  un  peu  quel  affront  !  ■     •• 

-Corneille,  en-son  cothurne,  étoit  au  double  mont 

Q/uand  il  fut  cité  de  la  sorte  ; 
Et,  de  peur  qu'une  amende  hoimît  tous  ses  lauriers, 

Prenant  sa  muse  pour  escorte. 
Il  vint,  comme  le  vent,  au  lieu  des  plaidoyers 

Biais  il  p)laida  si  hien  sa  cause, 
Soit  en  beaux  vers  ou  franche  prose, 
R 


386  APPENDIX. 

Q.u'en  termes  gracieux  la  police  lui  dit: 

'  La  paille  tourne  à  votre  gloire  ; 
Allez,  grand  Corneille,  il  suffit .^ 
Mais  de  la  paille  il  faut  vous  raconter  l'histoire, 

Afin  que  vous  sachiez  comment 
Elle  ctoit  à  sa  gloire,  en  cet  événement  : 
Sachez  donc  qu'un  des  fils  de  ce  grand  personnage 
Se  mêle,  comme  lui,  de  cueiller  des  lauriers, 
Mais  de  ceux  qu'aiment  les  guerriers, 
Et  qu'on  va  moissonner  au  milieu  du  carnage. 
Or,  ce  jeune  cadet,  à  Do%(ay  faisant  voir 
du'il  sait  des  mieux  remplir  le  belliqueux  devoir. 
D'un  mousquet  espagnol,  au  talon,  reçut  niche, 
Et  niche  qui  le  fit  aller  à  cloche-pié  ; 
Si  bien  qu'en  ce  momeiit  étant  estropié, 
Il  fallut,  quoi  qu'il  dît,  sur  le  cas,  cent  fois,  briche, 
Toute  sa  bravoure  cesser. 
Et  venir  à  Paris  pour  se  faire  panser. 
Or  ce  fut  un  brancard  qui,  dans  cette  aventure 
Lui  servit  de  voiture, 
Etant  de  paille  bien  garni  : 
Et  comme  il  entra  chez  son  père, 
Il  s'en  fit  un  peu  de  litière. 
Voilà  tout  le  récit  fini, 
dui  fait  voir  à  la  bourgeoisie 
(Il  est  bon  que  je  le  redie), 
du'il  faut,  comme  par  ci-devant, 
Glu' elle  ait  soin  de  tenir  toujours  net  son  devant." 


Appendix  E. — Page  227. 

ON  THE  METRICAL  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  "  IMITA 
TION  OF  CHRIST." 

BY  CORNEILLE.        (1651 1656.) 

Corneille  began  this  work  in  1G51,  and  published  the  first 
twenty  chapters  of  the  first  book  at  Rouen,  toM'ard  the  end  of 
that  year,  about  the  same  time  that  François  de  Harlay  de  Chan- 
vallon,  who  became  afterward  (in  1G74)  Archbishop  of  Paris, 


APPENDIX.  387 

took  possession  of  the  archbishopric  of  Rouen.  "  As  this  prelate," 
says  Corneille,  in  his  dedication  to  Pope  Alexander  VII.  (Fabio 
Chigi,  who  was  promoted  to  the  Holy  See  on  the  7th  of  April, 
1655),  "has  marvelous  talents  enabling  him  to  fulfill  all  the 
duties  of  so  high  a  pastorate,  and  an  indefatigable  ardor  in  dis- 
charging them,  I  owe  all  the  most  radiant  lights  which  have 
aided  me  in  carrying  out  this  undertaking  to  the  vivid  clearness 
of  those  weighty  and  eloquent  instructions  which  he  does  not 
cease  to  impart  to  his  flock,  or  to  the  secret  and  penetrating 
rays  which  his  familiar  conversation  scatters  continually  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  have  the  happiness  of  being  intimate  with 
him.  *  *  *  In  dedicating  to  him  my  work,  I  should  have 
wished  not  so  much  to  present  to  him  a  production  of  my  own, 
as  a  restitution  of  his  own  proper  wealth.  But  the  kind  feeling 
which  this  archbishop  entertains  for  me  has  so  far  prepossessed 
him  in  my  favor,  as  to  lead  him  to  think  that,  as  this  attempt  of 
my  pen  might  be  useful  to  all  Christians,  so  it  ought  to  have  a 
protector  whose  power  extends  itself  over  the  whole  Church  ;  and 
having  regarded  it  as  the  first-fruits  of  the  Christian  Muse  since 
he  has  filled  the  chair  of  St-Romain,  he  has  believed  that,  offer- 
ing it  to  your  Holiness,  was  for  him  to  offer  in  some  sort  the  first- 
fruits  of  his  diocese.  His  injunctions  have  put  to  silence  the  dis- 
trust which  I  justly  entertained  of  my  own  feebleness  ;  and 
what  without  such  recommendation  would  have  been  only  a 
proof  of  most  outrageous  presumption,  has  become  a  duty  to  me 
so  soon  as  I  received  it.  May  I  venture  to  confess  that  such  a 
command  is  grateful,  while  it  is  imperative!" 

Alexander  VII.  was  himself  a  poet  :  he  had  in  his  youth  com- 
posed some  Latin  poems,  which  were  printed  at  the  Louvre,  in 
1656,  after  his  elevation,  under  the  title  of  "  Philomath!  Musae 
Juveniles."  Corneille  read  these  poems,  and  admired  them 
exceedingly,  especially  those  in  which  the  poet  has  spoken  of 
death.  In  1656,  also,  Corneille  finished  and  published  the  fifth 
and  last  part  of  his  translation  of  the  "  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ," 
of  which  the  second,  third,  and  fourth  parts  had  appeared  at 
Rouen  in  1652,  1653,  and  1654.  "May  I  venture  to  confess," 
he  says,  in  his  dedication  to  the  Pope,  "  that  I  am  delighted  at 
being  able  to  take  this  opportunity  of  applauding  our  Muses,  and 
of  thanking  you  on  their  account,  for  the  time  which  you  have 
in  former  days  spent  in  their  society,  among  the  great  afiairs 


388  APPENDIX. 

which  claimed  your  attention  when  you  performed  the  important 
negotiations  which  the  Sovereign  Pontiffs,  your  predecessors,  en- 
trusted to  your  prudence.  From  the  results  of  the  time  thus 
spent  they  received  this  striking  testimony,  and  this  invincihle 
proof,  that,  not  only  are  they  adapted  to  the  most  exalted  virtues 
and  to  the  loftiest  positions,  but  that  they  even  dispose  the  mind 
thereto,  and  conduct  the  spirit  which  cultivates  them  thither,  if 
it  makes  a  good  use  of  them.  This  is  a  truth  which- is  conspicu- 
ous every  where  in  this  precious  collection  of  Latin  verses,  in 
ivhich  you  have  not  aimed  at  any  other  designation  tliati  that 
of  a  Friend  ta  the  Muses — and  tvhich  that  great  prelate  {Har- 
laij  de  Clmnvallon)  has  taken  pleasure  in  bringing  under  my 
notice  as  early  as  possible.  He  has  made  me  Tead  it,  he  has' 
made  me  admire  it,  with  him  ;  and,  to  do  you  the  justice  which 
it  is  fitting  should  be  rendered,  during  the  whole  of  this  reading 
I  could  merely  repeat  the  eulogies  which  each  verse  drew  from 
his  lips.  But  among  so  many  excellent  things  nothing  made  at 
the  time  so  strong  an  impression  on  my  mind-^and  no  irnprés- 
sion  has  been  so  enduring — as  those  admirable  thoughts  on  death 
which  you  have  scattered  so  abundantly  through  the  volume. 
They  brought  to  my  mind  serious  reflections  how  I  must  appear 
before  God,  and  render  to  Him  an  account  of  the  talent  with 
which  he  has  blessed,  me. 

"  This  led  me~to  consider  that  it  was  not  enough  that  I  had  so 
happily  been  able  to  purge  our  theatre  from  tlie  gi'ossnesses 
which  had  been,  as  it  were,  incorporated  iiito  it  by  preceding- 
ages,  and  from  the  licentiousness  which  the  last  ages  had  allow- 
ed ; — ^that  it  ought  not  to  content  me  that  in  their  place  a  throne 
had  been  established  for  moral  and  political  excellences,  and 
even  to  some  extent  for  Christian  virtues  ;-^-that  it  behoved  me 
to  carry  my  thoughts  further,  and  bring  all  the  ardor  of  my 
genius  to  some  new  trial  of  its  energies,  which  should  have  no 
less'-aim  than  tlie  service  of  the  great  Master  and  the  benefit  of 
my  neighbor.  This  it  is  which  has  induced  me  to  undertake 
the  translation  of  this  devout  moral  treatise,  •which,  by  the  sim- 
plicity of  its  style,  opens  up  a  way  for  the  fairest  graces  of  poesy  ; 
and,  so  far  from  increasing  my  own  reputation,  I  seem  to  sacri- 
fice to  the  glory  of  the  illustrious  author  all  that  I  have  myself 
been  able  to  gain  in  this  discviption  of  writing. 

"After  having  experienced  such  happy  results  of  the  general 


APPENDIX.  389 

obligation  which  is  acknowledged  to  your  Holiness  by  all  the 
Muses,  I  should  be  the  most  ungrateful  of  men,  did  I  not  dedicate 
my  work  to  him  who  was  its  primary  originator.  My  conscience 
would  bitterly  and  ever  reproach  me  if  I  suflered  such  neglect.  .  . 

The  work  was  approved  before  its  publication  by  two  doctors 
of  the  Sorbonne,  Robert  Le  Cornier  de  Sainte-Hélène,  and  Antoine 
Gaulde,  vicars-general  of  M.  de  Harlay.  On  the  cover  of  a  copy 
which  was  given  in  1831.  to  the  public  Library  of  Rouen,  by  M. 
Henri  Barbet,  Mayor  of  .the  town,  the  following  words,  in  the 
handwriting  of  Corneille,  are  iiiscribed  : 

"  Pour  le  R.  P.  Dom  Augustin  Vincent,  Chartreux  son  très- 
humble  serviteur  et  ancien  ami.  Corneille," 


Appendix  F. — Page  229. 
PENSIONS  AND  GIFTS  BESTOWED  ON  CORNEILLE 

UNDER  LOUIS  XIII.   AND  LOUIS  XIV. 

That  Corneille  shared  in  the  liberalities  dispensed  by  Cardinal 
Richelieu  there  can  be  no  doubt  ;  but  whether  he  received  from 
the  Cardinal  a  pension,  at  what  time  he  received  it,  and  what 
was  its  amount  we  can  not  accurately  determine. 

Mazarin  also  made  gifts  lo  Corneille,  though  doubtless  with 
less  munificence  than  Richelieu. 

The  dedication  of  "  Cinna"  to  M.  de  Montauron,  and  several 
minor  facts,  prove  that  wealthy  persons,  financiers,  and  others, 
also  bestowed  upon  Corneille  splendid  proofs  of  their  admiration. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  the  liberality  of  Fouquet  that  Cor- 
neille, in  1658,  determined  to  contiime  to  work  for  the  theatre. 

In  1662,  Colbert,  by  the  order  of  Louis  XIV.,  employed"  Costar 
and  Chapelain  separately  to  draw  up  a  list  of  learned  men  and 
literary  characters  who  were  deserving  of  royal  favor.  In  the 
list  drawn  up  by  Costar  we  read  : 

"  Corneille,  the  first  dramatic  poet  in  the  world." 

And  in  that  draAvn  up  by  Chapelain  : 

"  Corneille  ^Pierre)  is  a  prodigy  of  genius  and  the  ornament 
of  the  French  theatre.  He.  has  learning  and  sense  which,  how- 
ever, appear  rather  in  the  details  of  his  pieces  than  in  theit 
general  conception,  the  design  being  often  faulty — so  much  so, 


390  APPENDIX. 

that  they  would  deserve  to  be  classed  only  with  commonplace 
productions  were  not  this  general  artistic  defect  amply  compen- 
sated by  an  excellence  in  particulars  which  imparts  the  greatest 
perfection  of  refinement  to  the  execution  of  the  parts.  Separated 
from  the  theatre,  it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  he  would  suc- 
ceed in  prose  or  verse  composition,  when  acting  on  his  own  ac- 
count ;  for  he  has  but  small  experience  of  the  world,  and  sees 
but  little  that  exists  out  of  his  own  immediate  sphere.  His  para- 
phrase translations  of  the  '  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ'  are  very 
beautiful  productions,  but  are  merely  translations,  requiring  but 
little  inventive  genius." 

Corneille,  after  this,  received  a  pension  from  the  king  of  two 
thousand  livres. 

He  had  indirectly  obtained,  in  1655,  a  gift,  the  exact  value 
of  which  we  can  not  determine.  On  the  15th  of  April,  1645, 
Mathieu  de  Lampérière,  his  father-in-law,  died  while  in  posses- 
sion of  the  office  of  special  civil  lieutenant  to  the  presidial  baili- 
wick of  Gisors,  established  at  Andelys.  The  vacant  office  fell 
to  Pierre  Corneille,  by  right  of  his  wife,  Marie  de  Lampérière, 
and  as  het  share  in  the  inheritance.  Corneille  (who  had  pre- 
viously resigned  the  office  of  Royal  Advocate  at  the  Marble  Table 
of  the  Palace,  at  Rouen),  not  desiring  to  exercise  the  functions 
of  special  civil  lieutenant  at  Andelys,  resigned  his  office  in  favor 
of  Marin  Duval,  who  was  appointed  to  it  by  the  king,  and  took 
the  oaths  of  his  office  before  the  Parliament  of  Rouen,  December 
the  2d,  1651.  The  stipend  belonging  to  the  office,  which  fell 
due  in  this  intermediate  time  (that  is  to  say,  during  the  time 
when  the  post  became  vacant,  from  April  15,  1645,  to  December 
2,  1651,  the  day  when  the  vacancy  was  filled  up)  would,  accord- 
ing to  ordinary  usage,  have  fallen  to  the  Treasury.  But  Louis 
XIV.,  on  the  7th  of  September,  1655,  signed  letters  patent,  called 
intermediate,  by  virtue  of  which  the  whole  of  the  stipends  which 
had  become  due  during  the  time  in  which  the  office  was  vacant 
were  assigned  to  Pierre  Corneille,  to  whom  the  king  commanded 
them  to  be  paid.  These  letters  are  addressed  to  the  Chamber 
of  Accounts  at  Rouen,  enjoining  them  to  grant  and  allow  in  ac- 
count to  Pierre  Corneille,  the  said  stipends  and  rights  belonging 
to  the  said  office — and  this  from  April  15,  1645,  up  to  Decem- 
ber 2,  1651. 


APPENDIX.  391 

On  the  27th  of  Novemher,  1655,  the  Chamber  ot  Accounts 
of  Rouen,  on  occasion  of  the  request  presented  to  it  by  Pierre 
Corneille,  Esquire,  ordered,  by  an  official  declaration,  the  regis- 
tration of  these  letters-patent,  which  exist  in  the  "  Mémoriaux 
de  la  Chambre  des  Comptes  de  Rouen,"  *  from  whence  M.  Flo- 
quet  has  kindly  extracted  for  me  these  particulars. 

Between  the  year  1674 — in  which  his  son,  who  was  a  lieu- 
tenant of  cavalry,  died,  having  been  killed  at  the  siege  of  Graves 
— and  the  year  1683,  in  which  Colbert  died,  we  find  that  the 
following  petition  was  addressed  by  Corneille,  doubtless  to  Colbert. 
The  exact  date  I  have  been  unable  to  determine  : 

"  Sir — In  the  misfortune  which  has  happened  to  me,  for  the 
last  four  years,  of  having  received  no  part  of  the  gratuities  by 
which  His  Majesty  is  accustomed  to  honor  literary  men,  I  can 
not  seek  for  assistance  more  justly  and  with  better  prospects  of  a 
favorable  notice  from  any  one  than  from  you,  to  whom  I  am  en- 
tirely indebted  for  the  favors  which  I  have  already  received.  I 
myself  never  have,  I  know,  merited  this  distinction  ;  but  I  have 
at  least  endeavored  to  prove  myself  not  altogether  unworthy  of 
it  by  the  use  which  I  have  made  of  it.  I  have  not  applied  it  to 
my  own  personal  necessities  but  to  keep  two  sons  in  the  armies 
of  His  Majesty,  of  whom  one  was  killed  in  service  at  the  siege 
of  Graves  ;  the  other  has  now  served  for  fourteen  years,  and  is  a 
captain  of  light  cavalry. 

"  Therefore,  sir,  the  withdrawal  of  this  favor,  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  which  you  have  accustomed  me,  can  not  but  sensibly 
affect  me  in  this  last  respect  ;  not  in  my  domestic  interests,  al- 
though that  were  the  sole  advantage  which  I  have  .received  after 
fifty  years  of  toil,  but  because  this  was  an  honorable  mark  of 
esteem  which  the  king  was  graciously  pleased  to  bestow  for  the 
talent  which  God  has  given  me,  and  because  this  disgrace  will 
very  soon  put  me  out  of  a  position  any  longer  to  support  my  son 
in  the  service  in  which  he  has  employed  the  greater  part  of  my 
small  property,  that  he  might  honorably  fill  the  post  which  he 
there  occupies.  I  dare  hope,  sir,  that  you  will  have  the  kind- 
ness to  afford  me  your  protection,  and  not  to  allow  your  own 
work  to  be  destroyed.  But,  if  I  am  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  mis- 
taken in  entertaining  this  hope,  and  must  remain  excluded  from 
'  Vol.  Ixxiii.  folio  219,  "Archives  delà  Préfecture." 


392  APPENDIX. 

the  favors  which  I  so  highly  prize,  and  which,  are  so  necessary 
to  me,  I  only  ask  from  j'ou  that  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to 
believe  that  the  continuance  of  this  unhappy  influence  will  not, 
in  any  way,  weaken  either  my  zeal  for  the  service  of  the  king,  or 
the  sentiments  of  grateful  recollection  which  are  due  to  you  for 
your  past  kindness  ;  and  that,  until  I  breathe  my  last  sigh,  I  shall 
feel  it  an  honor  to  be,  with  all  possible  devotedhess  and  respect, 
"Your  very  humble,  obedient,  and  obliged  servant, 

"Corneille." 

Through  what  causes  Corneille  had  ceased  to  enjoy  his  pen- 
sion of  2000  livres,  we  do  not  know.  There  is  reason  to  believe 
that  the  pension  was  immediately  restored  to  him  :  for  we  read 
in  the  margin  of  his  petition  these  words,  written,  it  would  ap- 
pear ,^  by  Colbert: — "  Pension  granted  to  literary  men,  and  of 
which  he  has  been  deprived  for  four  years."  Nevertheless,  after 
the  death  of  Colbert,  in  September,  1683,  and  only  a  short  time 
before  his  own  death  (October  1,  1684)>  Corneille  was  still  in  a 
state  of  great  poverty.  It  was  then  that  Boileau,  nobly  protest^ 
ing  against  such  a  disgrace  being  offered  to  literature,  informed 
Louis  XIV.  of  the  circumstance,  and  offered  to  give  up  his  own 
pension  in  order  that  Corneille,  in  his  declining  health,  might  at 
least  be  able  to  procure  the  necessaries  of  existence.  The  king 
immediately  sent  to  Corneille  200  louis,  and  commissioned  La 
Chapelle,  a  relation  of  Boileau,  to  convey  the  money  to  him. 


Appendix  G.— Page  230. 

ON  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  ACCOUNTS 

FOR    THE    PARISH    OF    SAINT-SAVIOUR,    AT    ROUEN,    KEPT    AND    PRESENTEB 
BY    CORNEILLE,    IN    1651     AND    1652.  -  ' 

The  learned  and  accomplished  M.  Delille  discovered  at  Rouen, 
in  1840,  a  fact  and  a  manuscript^  which  are  full  of  interest,  with 
reference  to  the  life  of  Corneille.  I  will  present  his  discovery 
here  in  the  same  terms  in  which  he  himself  related  it,  in  1841., 
to  the  Academy  of  Rouen  : 

"We  know  that  Pierre  Corneille  was  born  at  Rouen,  in  the 


APPENDIX.  ,  393 

Rue  de  la  Pie,  in  the  paternal  mansion,  and  that  this  house  was 
situated  in  the  parish  of  Saint-Saviour,  of  which  the  Churcli, 
which  occupied  a  part  of  the  Vieux-Man-hé,  has  completely  dis- 
appeared. Having  had  occasion  to  examine  the  registers  of  this 
parish,  in  the  archives  of  the  department,  whither  they  were  re- 
moved at  the  Revolution,  I  have  heen  fortunate  enough  to  find  a 
proof  that  the  family  of  Pierre  Corneille  and  himself  were  not 
strangers  to  the  administration  of  this  parish,  and  that  testi- 
monies  to   this   fact,    written    in    their   hand,   remain   in   these 

registers In  following  the  track  of  this  illustrious  name 

through  one  of  these  huge  folio  volumes,  still  covered  with  its 
ancient  calf  binding,  which  contains  the  account  of  the  parish  of 
Saint-Saviour  from  the  year  1622  to  the  year  1653,  inclusively, 
what  was  my  surprise  and  joy  at  discovering  in  the  accounts  of 
1651  and  1652  the  writing  of  Corneille  himself,  filling  thirty- 
three  entire  pages  !  All  this  was  in  his  own  handwriting.  It 
was  a  statement  of  the  receipts  and  expenses  of  the  parish,  which 
Pierre  Corneille  presented,  as  acting-treasurer,  to  his  companions 
in  office.  The  preamble  to  this  account,  written  like  all  the 
rest  in  his  own  handwriting,  is  as  follows  : 

"  '  Compte  et  estât  de  la  recepte  mise  et  despense  que  Pierre 
Corneille,  Escuyer,  cy-devant  avocat  de  Sa  Majesté  aux  sièges 
généraux  de  la  Table  de  Marbre  du  Palais  à  Rouen,  trésorier  en 
charge  de  la  paroisse  de  Saint-Sauveur  au  dit  Rouen,  a  faite  des 
rentes,  revenues  et  deniers  appartenants  à  la  dicte  Eglise,  et  ce 
pour  l'année  commençant  à  Pasques,  1651,  et  finissant  à  pareil 
jour,  1652,  par  luy  présenté  à  Messieurs  les  curé  et  trésoriers  de 
la  dicte  paroisse,  à  ce  que  pour  sa  décharge  il  soit  procédé  à 
l'examen  du  diet  compte  et  clausion  d'icelui.' 

"  '  Account  and  statement  of  receipts,  disbursements,  and  ex- 
penses, which  Pierre  Corneille,  Esquire,  formerly  advocate  of  His 
Majesty  at  the  General  Sittings  of  the  Marble  Table  of  the  Palace 
at  Rouen,  acting-treasurer  for  the  parish  of  Saint-Saviour  in  the 
said  Rouen,  has  made  of  the  rents,  revenues,  and  moneys  belong- 
ing to  the  said  parish,  for  the  year  beginning  at  Easter,  1651, 
and  ending  on  the  same  day  of  1652,  by  him  presented  to  the  in- 
cumbent and  treasurers  of  the  said  parish ,  in  order  that  before  his 
retirement  the  examination  and  closing  of  the  said  account  may 
be  duly  gone  through.'  "    .       ' 

R*    '   ^ 


394  APPENDIX. 

"  Then  follows  the  detailed  account,  first  of  the  receipts,  then 
of.  the  expenses,  arranged  in  chapters  in  182  articles,  Mnih.  the 
amounts  carried  out  in  the  margin,  all  written  with  much  neat- 
ness, and  classed  with  singiilar  regularity.  ......     At  the  end 

of  the  account  presented  by  Pierre  Corneille,  there  is  inscribed  iu 
the  register,  under  the  date  of  Monday,  April  1,  1G52,  the  con- 
firmation of  it  which  was  given  by  the  incumbent  and  treasurers 
of  the  parish.  This  confirmation  is  signed  by  these  gentlemen 
and  by  Pierre  Corneille  himself. 

"  These  thirty-three  folio  pages,  entirely  in  the  handwriting  of 
this  great  man,  are,  notwithstanding  the  small  amount  of  interest 
attaching  to  the  matters  treated  of,  an  exceeding^  valuable  relic 
for  the  town  of  Rouen.  The  handwriting  of  Corneille  is  exceed- 
ingly seldom  to  be  met  with.  This  was  the  same  year  in  which 
Corneille  wrote  his  admirable  tragedy  of  "  Nicomède,"  and 
perhaps  the  same  pen  which  was  employed  in  -writing  this  parish 
account  was  also  employed  in  the  tragedy.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  it  was  composed  at  Rouen.  ,       - 

"  That  Corneille  made  a  prolonged  sojourn  in  his  native  town 
is  confirmed  by  these  registers  of  Saint-Saviour,  although  the 
generally  received  opinion  is  opposed  to  this.  His  signature  is.  to 
be  found  there  in  the  years  1648,  1649,  1651,  and  1652,  which 
shows  that  he  was  then  at  Rouen.  We  find  him  there  almost 
CQutiimally  up  to,  the  year  1662,  the  period  when  his  latest 
biographer,  M.  Taschereau,  supposes  he  quitted  Rouen  and  took 
up  his  residence  in-  Paris.  After  the  year  1662,.  his  name  does 
not  again  appear.  ...... 

"At  the  end  of  the  account  presented  by  Corneille  to  the 
treasurers  of  his  parish,  we  read  in  the  register,  under  the  date 
of  April  1,  1652,  the  follovnng  note:  .     -,     , 

"  '  There  was  ^ven  by.the  Sieur  Corneille,  to  the  treasury  of 
the  said  parish,  a  black  velvet  pall,  for  which  his  mother  Com 
tributed  the  sum  of  one  hundred  livres  which  she  has  given  to 
the  said  treasury,  in  order  that  the  said.  Sieur  Corneille  might 
have  the  privilege  of  availing  himself  of  it  for  them  and  his  family 
and  domestics,  without  paying  any  thing  for  it. 

"  This  gift  proves  that  Corneille  entertained  at  that  time  the 
intention  of  ending  his  days  at  Rouen.     It  was  destined  tomber 


I 


APPENDIX.  390 

otherwise.  The  black  velvet  pall  at  the  church  of  Saint-Saviour 
did  not  cover  the  remains  ol"  the  great  poet  ;  Saint-Roch,  at  Paris, 
was  to  be  the  scene  of  his  obsequies." 

(Biographical  note  on  Pierre  Corneille,  by  M.  A.  Delille,  in  the 
"  Précis  des  Travaux  de  l'Académie  Royale  de  Rouen  pour 
l'Année  1840,"  pp.  276—283). 


THE     END. 


I 
I 


CHOICE  WORKS  FOR  LIBRARTIES, 


JUST    PUBLISHED 


BÏ  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine. 

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Gibbon's  History  of  E-ome, 

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Chalmers's  Posthumous  Works. 

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In  the  Far  Interior  of  South  Africa.  With  Jvlotices  of  the  Na- 
tive Tribes,  and  Anecdotes  of  the  Chase  of  the  Lion,  Elepiiant, 
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I'hornton's  Oregon  and  California  in  1848  : 

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able Matter  of  Interestto  the  Emigrant,  ^c     W' ith  Illustrations 
and  a  Map.     2  vols.  12mo,  Muslin,  $1  75. 

Southey's  Common-place  Book. 

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Gibbon's  History  of  Rome, 

With  Notes,  by  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman  and  M.  Guizot.  Maps  and 
Engravings.  4  vols.  8vo,  Sheep  extra,  $5  00. — A  new  Cheap 
edition,  with  Notes  by  Rev.  H,  H.  Milman.  To  which  is  added 
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Hume's  History  of  England, 

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11.,  1688.  A  new  Edition,  with  the  Author's  last  Corrections 
and  Improvements.  To  which  is  prefixed  a  Short  Account  of 
his  Life,  written  by  Himself.  With  a.Portrait  of  the  Author.  6 
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Macaulay's  History  of  England, 

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Leigli  Hunt's  Autobiography, 

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Life  and  Letters  of  Thomas  Campbell 

Edited  by  William  Beattie,  M.D.,  one  of  his  Executors.  With 
an  Introductory  Letter  by  Washington  Irving,  Esq.  Portrait. 
2  vols.  i2mo.  Muslin,  $2  50. 

Dyer's  Life  of  John  Calvin. 

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Moore's  Health,  Disease,  and  Remedy, 

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Humboldt's  Cosmos  : 

A  Sketch  of  a  Physical  Description  of  the  Univeise.  Trans- 
lated from  the  German,  by  E.  C.  Otté.  2  vols.  12rno,  Paper, 
$1  50  ;  Muslin,  $1  70. 

Dr.  Lardner's  Railway  Economy  : 

A  Treatise  on  the  New  Art  of  Transport,  its  Management,  Pros- 
pects, and  Relations,  Commercial,  Financial,  and  Social  ;  with 
an  Exposition  of  the  Practical  Results  of  the  Railways  in  Op- 
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Urquhart's  Pillars  of  Hercules  ; 

Or,  a  Narrative  of  Travels  in  Spain  and  Morocco  in  1848.  2  vols 
12mo,  Paper,  $1  40;  Muslin,  $1  70. 

Sidney  Smith's  Moral  Philosophy. 

An  Elementary  Treatise  on  Moral  Philosophy,  delivered  at  the 
Royal  Institution  in  the  Years  1804,  1805,  and  1806.  12mo  Mus- 
lin, $1  00. 

Tefft's  (Rev.  B.  F.)  The  Shoulder-Knot  ; 

Or,  Sketches  of  the  Three-fold  Life  of  Man.  12mo,  Paper,  60 
cents ,  Muslin,  75  cents. 

Bishop  Hopkins's  History  of  the  Confessional. 

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Greeley's  Hints  toward  Reforms. 

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Chalmers's  Life  and  Writings. 

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Chalmers's  Posthumous  V\^orks. 

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Rev  H.  T.  Cheever's  The  Whale  and  his  Cap- 

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Warburton's  Conquest  of  Canada. 

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Ruxton's  Life  in  the  Far  West. 

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Corkran's  History  of  the  National  Constituent 

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Rev.  Charles  Beecher's  The  Incarnation  ; 

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Benjamin  Franklin's  Autobiography. 

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Dante's  Divine  Comedy  :  The  Inferno. 

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Wallis's  Glimpses  of  Spain  ; 

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Rev.  W.  P.  Strickland's  History  of  the  American 

BIBLE  SOCIETY.  From  its  Organization  in  1816  to  the  Près 
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Portrait  ofHon.  Elias  Boudinot,  LL.D.,  first  President  oftiie  So- 
ciety.    8vo,  Sheep,  $1  75  ;  Cloth,  $1  50." 

Seymour's  Mornings  among  the  Jesuits  at  Rome. 

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Gieseler's  Compendium  of  Ecclesiastical  His- 

TORY.  From  the  fourth  German  Edition,  Revised  and  Amend- 
ed. Translated  by  S.a.muel  Davidson,  LL.D.  Vols.  I.  and  II. 
8vo,  Muslin,  $3  00. 

Whately's  Elements  of  Rhetoric  ; 

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ocution.    l8mo.  Muslin,  37^  cents. 

Whately's  Elements  of  Logic. 

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ropolitana.  With  Additions,  &c.  The  only  complete  American 
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Upham's  Life  of  Faith  : 

Embracing  some  of  the  Scriptural  Principles  or  Doctrines  of 
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Inward  Nature,  and  the  Regulation  of  Faith  to  the  Divine  Guid- 
ance.    12tno,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

Upham's  Life  of  Madame  Catharine  Adorna. 

Including  some  leading  Facts  and  Traits  in  her  Religious  Experi- 
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lustrate the  Doctrine  of  Holiness.     I2mo,  Muslin,  gilt  edges,  60 
cents  ;  Muslin,  50  cents. 

Upham's  Principles  of  the  Interior  or  Hidden 

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Combe's  (A.)  Physiology  of  Digestion, 

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Combe's  (G.)  System  of  Phrenology. 

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BIOGRAPHY  AID  HISTORY, 


PUBLISHED   BY 


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Abbott's  Illustrated  Histories: 

Comprising,  Xerxes  the  Great,  Cyrus  the  Great.  Darius  the  Great, 
Alexander  the  Great,  Hannihal  the  Carthaginian,  Julius  Caesar, 
Cleopatra  Queen  of  Egypt,  Alfred  the  Great,  William  the  Con- 
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phine. Embellished  with  Illuminated  Title-pages  and  numeroua 
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Lives  of  the  Queens  of  Scotland, 

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of  Great  Britain.  By  Agnes  Strickland.  6  vols.  12rao,  Mus- 
lin, $1  00  per  Volume. 

History  of  the  United  States, 

From  the  first  Settlement  of  the  Country  to  the  Organization  ol 
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Lord  Holland's  Foreign  lienrdniscences. 

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Life  and  Writings  of  Washington  ; 

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tratioBs,  &c.  By  Jared  Sparks,  LL.D.  Wiih  numerous  En- 
gravings. 12  vols.  8vo,  Mnslin,  $18  00;  Sheep  extra.  $31  00; 
half  Calf,  $24  00. 


2       Valuable  Works  on  Biography  and  Hi  story. 
The  Pictorial  Field-Book  of  the  Revolution  ; 

or,  lUustiations  by  Pen  and  Pencil,  of  the  History,  Scenery,  Bi- 
ography, Relics,  and  Traditions  of  the  War  for  Independence. 
By  Benson  J.  Lossing,  Esq.  Embellished  with  600  Engravings 
on  Wood,  chiefly  from  Original  Sketches  by  the  Author.  In 
about  20  Numbers,  8vo,  Paper,  25  cents  each. 

Life  and  Writings  of  Thomas  Chalmers,  D.D., 

LL.D.  Edited  by  his  Son-in-Law,  Rev.  William  Hanna,  LL.D 
3  vols.  12mo,  Paper,  75  cents  ;  Muslin,  $1  00  per  Volume. 

Life  of  John  Calvin. 

Compiled  from  authentic  Sources,  and  particularly  from  his  Coi- 
respondence.     ByT.  H.  Dyer.    Portrait.     12mo,  Muslin,  $1  00. 

Leigh  Hunt's  Autobiography, 

With  Reminiscences  of  Friends  and  Contemporaries.  2  vols. 
12mo,  Muslin,  Si  50. 

Southey's  Life  and  Correspondence. 

Edited  by  his  Son,  Rev.  Charles  Cuthbert  Southey,  M.A.  In 
6  Parts,  8vo,  Paper,  25  cents  each  ;  one  Volume,  Muslin,  $2  00 

Dr.  Johnson  :  his  Religious  Life  and  his  Death. 

12mo,  Mushn,  il  00. 

Life  and  Letters  of  Thomas  Campbell. 

Edited  by  William  Beattie,  M.D.,  one  of  his  Executors.  With 
an  Introductory  Letter  by  Washington  Irving,  Esq.  Portrait 
2  vols.     12mo,  Muslin,  $2  50. 

Hume's  History  of  England, 

From  the  Invasion  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  Abdication  of  Jamet 
IL,  1688.  A  new  Edition,  with  the  Author's  last  Corrections 
and  Improvements.  To  which  is  prefixed  a  short  Account  oi 
his  Life,  written  by  Himself.  With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author. 
6  vols.  12mo,  Cloth,  $2  40  ;  Sheep,  $3  00. 

Macaulay's  History  of  England, 

From  the  Accession  of  James  II.  With  an  original  Portrait  o> 
the  Author.  Vols.  I.  and  II.  Library  Edition,  8vo,  Muslin,  75 
cents  per  Volume  ;  Sheep  extra,  87^  cents  per  Volume  ;  Cal. 
backs  and  corners,  $1  00  per  Volume.  —  Cheap  Edition,  8vo, 
Paper,  25  cents  per  Volume. — 12mo  (uniform  with  Hume),  Cloth, 
40  cents  per  Volume. 

(jibbon's  History  of  Rome, 

With  Notes,  by  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman  and  M.  Guizot.  Maps  and 
Engravings.  4  vols.  8vo,  Sheep  extra,  $5  00. — A  new  Cheap  Edi- 
tion, with  Notes  by  Rev.  H.  H.  Milman.  To  which  is  added  a 
complete  index  of  the  whole  Work  and  a  Portrait  of  the  Author. 
6  vols.  12mo  (uniform  with  Hume),  Cloth,  $2  40;  Sheep,  $3  00. 

Journal  and  Memorials  of  Capt.  Obadiah  Con- 
gar  :  for  Fifty  Years  Mariner  and  Shipmaster  from  the  Port  o< 
New  York.     Bv  Rev.  H.  T.  Cheever.     16mo.  Muslin 


Valuable  Works  on  Biography  and  History.      3 
.Benjamin  Franklin's  Autobiography. 

With  a  Sketch  of  his  Public  Services,  by  Rev.  H.  Hastinob 
Weld.  With  numerous  exquisite  Designs,  by  John  G.  CniP- 
MAN.     8vo,  Muslin,  $3  £0;   Sheep,  $2  75  ;  half  Calf,  $3  00. 

History  of  Spanish  Literature. 

With  Criticisms  on  the  particular  Works  and  Biographical  INo- 
tices  of  prominent  Writers.  By  George  Ticknor,  Esq.  3  vols. 
8vo,  half  Calf  extra,  $7  50  ;  Sheep  extra,  $C  75  ;  Muslin,  $6  00. 

History  of  the  National  Constituent  Assembly, 

From  May,  1848.  By  J.  F.  Corkran.  Eso.  12mo,  Muslin, 
90  cents  ;  Paper,  75  cents. 

The  Recent  Progress  of  Astronomy, 

Especially  in  the  United  states.  By  Elias  Loomis,  M.A.  12mo, 
Muslin,  $1  00. 

The  English  Language 

In  its  Elements  and  Forms.  With  a  History  of  its  Origin  and 
Development,  and  a  full  Grammar.  By  W.  C.  Fowler,  M.A. 
8vo,  Muslin,  $1  50  ;  Sheep,  $1  75. 

History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 

By  William  H.  Prescott,  Esq.  3  vols.  8vo,  half  C»lf,  $7  50  ; 
Sheep  e.xtra,  $6  75  ;  Muslin,  S6  00. 

History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico. 

With  the  Life  of  the  Conqueror,  Hernando  Cortez,  and  a  Vmw 
of  the  Ancient  Mexican  Civilization.  By  William  H.  Prescott, 
Esq.  Portrait  and  Maps.  3  vols.  8vo,  half  Calf,  $7  50  ;  Sheep 
extra,  $6  75  ;  Muslin,  S6  00. 

History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru. 

With  a  Preliminary  view  of  the  Civilization  of  the  Incas.  By 
William  H.  Prescott,  Esq.  Portraits,  Maps,  &c.  8  vols.  8vo, 
bilf  Calf,  $5  00;  Sheep  extra,  $4  50  ;  Muslin,  $4  00. 

Biographical  and  Critical  Miscellanies. 

Containing  Notices  of  Charies  Brockden  Brown,  the  American 
Novelist. — Asylum  for  the  Blind. — Irving's  Conquest  of  Grenada. 
— Cenrantes. — Sir  W.  Scott. — Chauteaubriand's  English  Litera 
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Mexico. — Molière. — Italian  Narrative  Poetry. — Poetry  and  Ro 
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tions. By  William  H.  Prescott,  Esq.  Portrait.  8vo,  Musln, 
$2  00  ;  Sheep  extra,  $2  25  ;  half  Calf,  $2  50. 

Past,  Present,  and  Future  of  the  Republic. 

By  Alphonse  de  Lamartine.  12mo,  Muslin,  50  cents  ;  Papej, 
37i  cents. 

The  War  with  Mexico 

By  R.  S.  Ripley,  U.S.A.  With  Maps,  Plans  of  Battles,  (S*c  9 
vols.  12mo,  Muslin,  $4  00  ;  Sheep,  m  50 1  half  Calf,  $&  00 


4      Valuable  Works  on  Biography  and  History. 
The  Conquest  of  Canada. 

By  the  Author  of"  Hochelaga."     2  vols.  12mo,  Musiiii,  $'  70. 

llistoiy  of  the  Confessional. 

By  John  Heney  Hopkins,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Vermont.  J  2mo,  Mu»» 
lin,  $1  00.  ■ 

Dark  Scenes  of  History. 

By  G.  P.  R.  James,  Esq.     12mo,  Paper,  7o  cents  ;  Muslin,  $1  00. 

Library  of  American  Biography. 

Edited  by  Jahed  Sparks,  LL.D.  Portraits,  &c.  10  vols.  12iiio, 
Muslin,  S7-50.  Each  volume  sold  separately,  if  desired,  price 
75  cents. 

Gieseler's  Ecclesiastical  History. 

'  From  the  Fourth  Edition,  revised  and  amended.  Translated  from 
the  German,  by  Samuel  Davidson,  LL.D.  Vols.  I.  and  II.  8vo, 
Muslin,  m  00. 

Elistory  of  the  American  Bible  Society, 

From  its  Organization  in  1816  to  the  Present  Time.  By  Rev. 
W.  P.  Strickland.  With  an  Introduction,  by  Rev.  N.  L.  Rice, 
and  a  Portrait  of  Hon.  Elias  Boudinot,  LL.D.,  first  President  of 
the  Society.    8vo,  Cloth,  gl  50  ;  Sheep,  $1  75. 

Biographical  History  of  Congress  : 

Comprising  Memoirs  of  Members  of  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States,  together  with  a  History  of  Internal  Improvements  from 
the  Foundation  of  the  Government  to  the  Present  Time.  By 
Henry  G.  Wheeler.  W'ith  Portraits  and  Fac-simile  Autographs. 
8vo,  Muslin,  S3  00  per  Volume. 

Schmitz's  History  of  Rome, 

From  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Death  of  Commodus,  A.D.  192. 
With  Questions,  by  J.  Robson,  B.A.     18mo,  Muslin,  75  cents. 

Louis  the  Fourteenth, 

and  the  Court  of  France  in  the  Seventeenth  Century.  By  Mis» 
Pardoe.  Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings,  Portraits,  &c 
2  vols.  12mo,  Muslin,  $3  50. 

History  of  the  Girondists  ; 

Or,  Personal  Memoirs  of  the  Patriots  of  the  French  Revolution. 
By  A. -DE  Lamartine.  From  unpublished  Sources.  3vols.  I2mo, 
Muslin,  f  2  10. 

Josephus's  Complete  Works. 

A  new  Translation,  by  Rev.  Robert  Traill,  D.D.  With  Notes, 
Explanatory  Essays,  &c.,  by  Rev.  Isaac  Taylor,  of  Ongar.  11- 
lu~strated  by  numerous  Engravings.  Publishing  in  Monthly  Num- 
bers, 8vo,  Paper,  25  cents  each. 

History  of  the  French  Revolution. 

By  Tuomas  Carlyle.  Newly  Revised  by  the  Author,  wïth  in 
dex,  &c      a  vols.  12mo,  Muslm,  S2  00. 


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